"Yes." I shook a cape with a snap. "Let's."
Santiago's chocolate brown eyes stared up at me. "Instead of 'Magnolia,' the name of your tìa should be Tabebuia."
"What's that?" I covered him with the cape.
"It is another kind of tree—the Cuban Pink Trumpet."
My head jerked over my shoulder. Luckily, Gia had gone. Because if she'd gotten wind of the pink tree comment, I would've never heard the end of it.
To put a damper on the tìa talk, I pulled the towel from the warmer and covered his mouth. Given the circumstances, I certainly didn't want him trying to shake my aunt's tree. Besides, I needed to figure out a way to turn the conversation to Jade.
After a minute, I removed the towel.
He tilted his head backward to meet my gaze. "You know, when Vinnie was alive, this place was like the Tropicana Club in La Habana."
"The salon?"
"It wasn't only a salon." His pitch raised in protest. "It was a centro social. In the daytime, people came here to talk and share ideas. And at night he hosted parties with music and drinks and dancing." His eyes practically did the mambo at the memory. "And the women…"
"What about them?" I knelt to open my supply cabinet.
A nostalgic grin formed at his lips. "They were like Las Diosas de Carne."
I knew carne meant "meat." I just hoped the first part of the phrase was less offensive. "I don't know what that is."
"'Flesh goddesses.'" He clasped his hands on his abdomen. "It is the name of the Tropicana showgirls."
So much for the "meat." I pulled out a straight razor and shaving cream. "Did my uncle have parties often?"
"Three times a week."
"He had to rest sometime," I said, checking the blade.
"Rest? Vincent Conti?" He gave a lusty laugh. "He was busier when he did not have the parties, because then he had to make time for his ladies."
I stopped and scrutinized Santiago's face. Wasn't Uncle Vinnie with "his ladies" at the parties? "How many, uh, women friends did he have?"
The corners of his mouth lifted into a Joker-style smile. "Sometimes several a night."
My aunt Carla had once called Vinnie the Conti Casanova, but three women a night seemed like more than the real Casanova could have handled. Or Gene Simmons, for that matter.
The salon door swung open, and Donna Bocca scampered inside.
"Is Gia around?" She scoured the salon. "I need a manicure for a party tonight, and after this morning's Cove Chronicles story, I'm not going near Styles and Spirits."
A thought struck me like a punch in the gut. What if the Poison Poinsettia wasn't the only polish the killer had poisoned?
My body wanted to panic, but I kept it together. At least I hadn't used any products on Santiago. "Let me check the break room, Donna." I slipped the shaving cream back into the cabinet. "Would you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Beltràn?"
"For anything, cariño."
Gia was at the table licking her wounds and a spoonful of my rosemary-pluot jam.
I pulled up a chair. "We've got a big problem, cuz."
"Actually, two—Ivy's insane and Santiago's smitten." She pointed the spoon at me. "Out of all the women in this town, can you believe he picked the pink-haired Marge Simpson to have the hots for?"
"I can." I shot her a lay-off-my-aunt look. "I'm talking about Donna Bocca. She wants a manicure."
Gia scowled at the ceiling. "What is up with this day? Donna's manicures are murder—I mean, not like Jade's, obviously." She took another spoonful from the jar. "It's just that her fingernails are as thick as an old man's toenails."
My belly burbled. I didn't know how she could talk toenails and eat jam. "I meant the nail polish. The killer could've poisoned your entire inventory—maybe all of our products."
"Holy Stromboli." She glanced at her guccissima. "I did my nails last night."
"If nothing's happened to you by now, I'm sure you're fine." I gave her arm a squeeze. "But what are we going to tell Donna? With her animal instinct for sniffing out gossip, she'll know something's up if we refuse her a manicure."
"I'll run to the drugstore and buy a few bottles." Gia stood and grabbed the Ferrari keys from the hook by the door. "She always wears brown—to match her mustache."
I rose to my feet with an eye roll. "I'll try to stall her."
"Get her gossiping, and she's good."
I returned to the salon sick to my stomach. We were already operating at a loss thanks to Styles and Spirits, and unless business picked up soon, the cost of replacing our product inventory could be the final nail in our coffin.
"I always said there was something off about Ivy." Donna slid into the salon chair next to Santiago. "Did you know she's been in town for six months and hasn't made a single friend?" Her wide nostrils flared like wings. "If that's not proof she's a psychopath, I don't know what is."
"She's not a psychopath." I reached for my electric razor, hoping Santiago was too engrossed in gossip to notice. "She's a…" So many words came to mind, none of them fit for speaking aloud. "…workaholic."
Donna crossed her arms. "Then how do you explain what she did to Jade Liu?"
Of course, I could explain what Ivy had done to Jade, but I wasn't going to tell that to Woman Mouth. To buy some time, I started shaving Santiago's cheek, and since he was a known chichi chaser, I was careful not to lean over him. "We should let the police explain that."
"That could take months, or years." Donna hefted one leg over the other. "And why would I wait when I know someone who could tell me what happened to Jade?"
The razor veered off course and caught the tip of Santiago's mustache.
"¡Ay!" He grabbed his mouth.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Beltràn." I leaned in, no longer caring whether my chichis did the cha-cha near his face. "Who are you talking about?"
She uncrossed her legs and turned toward us to get a full frontal of our faces when she spilled her secret. "I'll give you a hint—I saw Jade on Sunday morning when I went to drop off some Blue Santa gifts."
I pointed the blade at Donna. "No hints. I need a name."
"Someone's prickly." She sat back in her chair. "All I can say is that I saw her when I was putting the gifts in the drop box at The Fourth United Methodist Church of Danger Cove."
A jolt went through me at her reference to Reverend Vickers' congregation, and I wondered whether God was trying to smite me for wondering whether the Reverend was involved in Jade's death.
"Why do they call it The Fourth?" Santiago asked—my chest. "It is the only one, no?"
Donna reassumed the gossip position. "Well, years ago there were two—The First and The Second. But The Second sued The First because it wanted to be The First, so The First countersued."
This sounded like an Abbott and Costello routine.
"Judge Barrett ruled that neither church could use The First in their name." She gave a serves-them-right smirk. "Then they settled their differences and decided to unite. But no one wanted to be The Second, so they agreed to start over as The Third. The joke was on them, though, because they found out that a priest in Florida had bought the domain name, and he wanted a small fortune for it."
So much for Christian brotherhood. "Let's get back to Jade. Do you think she was there for the morning service?"
Donna's eyebrow arched like the Arc de Triomphe. "Not unless Reverend Vickers delivers private sermons at six a.m."
I grabbed onto the styling chair while I processed this revelation. My mind reasoned that Jade was troubled and had simply sought The Reverend's counsel. But given the presence of his name on my uncle's list, my instincts were telling me a different story—one that was anything but biblical.
* * *
"My husband is writing a sermon." Charlotte Vickers was so outraged by my request to speak with The Reverend that her jowls and turkey neck trembled. "What is this about?"
I didn't want to lie since I was in a church, so I decided to play it vague. "It's a private matter
."
She glanced wide-eyed at the members of her Bible study group, who were seated in a pew doing their best to appear absorbed in Scripture. "I'll see if he's available for visitors."
While I waited for the verdict, I pretended to admire the stained-glass window above the stage-style pulpit. According to the local rumor mill, when The Fourth United Methodist Church was being built in the late '90s, the project went over budget, so The Reverend made the dubious decision to allow Charlotte and her fellow classmates from an introductory stained-glass course to make the window. The design was supposed to be that of a dove in the sky surrounded by a nimbus, which represented the divinity, but the end result looked like a seagull passed out on pool float, which was anything but divine.
"He has graciously agreed to see you." Charlotte's body was nowhere near as relaxed as her Little House on the Prairie bun. "You've got five minutes."
"Thank you." I flashed a forced smile and headed to a hallway to the right of the pulpit. Luckily, I'd been to The Reverend's office before, because it would've taken an act of God to get Charlotte to show me the way.
I stopped in front of a door with a marquee-style nameplate that read The Reverend Donald H. Vickers and knocked lightly.
"State your name," The Reverend trilled.
I rested my forehead on the door. "Um, Cassidi Conti?"
"Come in and be silent."
Although the invitation was less than inviting, I entered and awaited further instruction.
The sixty-something reverend was seated behind his desk, absorbed in his sermon. Atop his pastoral vestments, he wore a red velvet cape and a bejeweled crown. "I'll be with you shortly." He didn't look up. "Please have a seat."
I sat in an armchair and looked at his posters—Godspell, Jesus Christ, Superstar, The Book of Mormon, and The Sound of Music. The Reverend loved religious musicals and had aspired to be in the theater as a young man. But Broadway never called, and the Basilica did. So he'd turned his sermons into stage productions that always featured him as the lead. And even though Christmas was around the corner, I couldn't tell whether his current costume was supposed to be one of the Three Wise Men or Freddie Mercury from Queen.
"I can see you now, Cassidi." He lowered his reading glasses. "I trust my wishes for the living nativity are clear?"
"They are, Reverend." I clasped my hands in my lap. "You want a Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat look for the hair and makeup."
"Indeed." His bottom lip lowered. "So what, pray tell, are you doing here?"
I knew I had to be as patient as Job and as wise as Solomon to get to the crux of the Jade matter. "I came to talk to you about your meeting with Ms. Liu."
He turned as white as his clerical collar. "As a man of the cloth, I'm obligated to maintain clergy-penitent privilege."
"Penitent?" I repeated. "So, she was confessing something?"
"Heavens no." His denial was so abrupt he had to straighten his crown.
"I realize I'm putting you in a difficult position, but Jade is gone, and Ivy Li has been accused of her murder."
"What concern is that of yours?" His color changed to match his cape. "From what Ms. Bocca tells me, you and Ms. Li are sworn enemies."
Damn Donna, I thought. Then I stiffened. Not only had I mentally cursed in a church, but I'd done so in front of a reverend while surrounded by religious artifacts from musicals. "We have our issues, but as salon owners we have to stick together—you know, like the members of your congregation did after the lawsuits."
His back tensed like he had a cross to bear. "You'd be wise to stay out of this, young lady. God only knows you can't afford—"
An awkward silence ensued, and not just because of that "God only knows."
"I can't afford what?"
His eyes dropped to his sermon, and the door burst open.
"Your time is up," Charlotte announced, all high and mighty. "My husband has the Lord's work to do."
I rose to my feet. "I appreciate your time." I had to appear compliant because I couldn't afford to lose the nativity job, which was probably what The Reverend had been about to tell me. "I'll see you both this weekend."
Charlotte eyed me as I exited. And based on the fire and brimstone in her gaze, I would've sworn on a stack of Bibles that The Reverend had betrayed Jade's confidence to his wife.
She closed the door behind me, and I rummaged in my bag for my keys.
"Why didn't you fire her?" Charlotte's ire resounded in the hallway.
Since she was obviously referring to me, I leaned in and listened.
"Who else could we get to do hair and makeup, Kitten?" The Reverend asked. "Ivy would be more scandalous than Cassidi at this point, and it would cost a fortune to bring in Seattle beauticians."
Why was I scandalous? And how in the name of Hades was Charlotte a "Kitten"?
"Well, I don't like it," Charlotte said. "It was bad enough that her uncle was a drunk and a lecher, but now that we know who Jade's grandmother worked for, we can't have Cassidi coming around the church."
From the way Charlotte was casting stones at my uncle and Jade's grandma, it seemed to me that she was the one who shouldn't come around the church.
"Don't be so dramatic," The Reverend said in an epic case of the pastor calling the kitten black. "No one's going to find that out."
"Oh, really?" She harrumphed. "Well, humor me while I play the devil's advocate."
Was that allowed in a house of God?
"Let's say no one does find out," she said. "As a minister of the gospel, do you still think it's right to have Cassidi Conti involved in a reenactment of the birth of the baby Jesus when we know the murdered woman's grandmother worked for Sabine LaSalle?"
My stomach dropped like it was falling from grace. I finally knew what The Reverend had been about to say to me, and why his wife didn't want me at the church. It was that I couldn't afford a scandal, and neither could they.
And if what they were saying about Jade's grandmother was true, then there would be hell to pay.
Because Sabine LaSalle was the last of three generations of women who'd owned and operated the LaSalle House—the brothel that used to be in my building.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"The Reverend hasn't gone to the police?" Amy yelled in the middle of the Danger Cove Library stacks. "I hope you raised Cain."
She would suggest getting rowdy. I dragged her from Religious Studies to Self-Help in the back. No one in town ever went to that section, so I was sure we'd be out of earshot. Plus, the time had come to find Amy a book on discretion. "All I know is that he's claiming clergy-penitent privilege, which implies that she went to him for counsel."
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her beige cardigan and leaned against a shelf. "Do you believe him?"
My gaze fell on a copy of Lies at the Altar: The Truth About Great Marriages. "Based on the way he and Charlotte were acting, I'm guessing that Jade didn't talk to him about the Bible."
Her eyes enlarged behind her lenses. "You don't think he's her half uncle, do you?"
"Any of the men on the list could be her half uncle, even Robbie the pool boy." I sat on a library stool. "But Bree said that Jade wanted to have the manicure before she met whoever she came to town to see. And she went to the church first, so it's probably not Reverend Vickers."
"Don't rule The Reverend out." Amy spoke as though he were a convict and not a clergyman. "Not until we know what their nonreligious rendezvous was about."
I glanced at my naked nails. "Actually, that's why I'm here. I've got to find out who this grandmother was that worked for Sabine LaSalle."
"How? Brothels aren't inclined to keep employment records." She held up a finger. "Unless they're in one of the twelve Nevada counties where prostitution is legal."
I opted not to ask why she knew that information. "I'm going to start by researching the infamous brothel fire to see if I can find out the names of some of the women working there. I know the Cove Chronicles was around in 1
955, and they would've covered the story, especially since housewives started the blaze."
"Good idea. The Cove reporters wouldn't have missed a chance to report on a scandal like that."
Didn't I know it. "What about Sabine? Does the library have a book about her or the LaSalle family?"
A clatter startled us silent, and we turned to see books on the floor—and Olivia Olcott at the end of the aisle. Instead of her standard superior stare, her face looked like it was sculpted from stone.
Olivia knelt to retrieve the books. "Wrong section." She stood and shoved them onto the shelf. "I thought this was Biography." Then she turned and left so fast you would've thought I'd handed her Lies at the Altar.
"She knows biographies are by the check-out counter," Amy whispered—for once. "She was in here last week with yet another one about her great-great-grandfather, as if everyone in town didn't know Harry Cockman's company provided almost all the lumber during the Gold Rush."
A bout of nerves, not to mention that name, brought me to my feet. "I think she heard us." And then a more nerve-wracking thought struck me. Had she seen me spying on her with Robbie the pool boy?
"So what if she did?" Amy asked. "It's not against the law to talk about the LaSalles. That reminds me—we don't have any books about them, but I know Ben has been helping Harriet McCudgeon do research on Sabine."
My brain bristled at the news. Harriet was the one who'd decided that my salon would be a stop on her Gold Rush History Tour. The problem was that she only wanted to feature its past as the LaSalle brothel, so I had no intention of talking to her. "Let's start with the back issues of the Cove Chronicles, okay?"
"Those are available online." Amy led me to the public computers in the center of the library. We took a seat, and she pulled up the newspaper website. "Do you know when the fire was?"
"New Year's Day." I remembered the date because I was pretty sure the wives of Danger Cove had gotten together and made a group resolution to incinerate the place.
"That simplifies things." She typed the date, pressed enter, and scrolled through the paper.
A Poison Manicure & Peach Liqueur Page 8
