My eyes were stuck to the screen. "The fire would've been front-page news. Let's check the next day."
Amy entered January 2, 1955, and a photograph of the still-smoldering remains of a building appeared with the headline, ARSON! BROTHEL BURNED BY WOMEN SCORNED.
"That's a catchy title." She sounded impressed.
"Sensational headlines seem to be a Cove Chronicles custom." I pictured Duncan Pickles' smug face in my head and promptly shook him out. I turned my attention to the article.
At 10 yesterday evening, an incensed mob of local wives marched with torches in hand to the LaSalle family's parlor house at 627 Fletcher Way and set fire to the storied establishment. Ten young women were working at the house when the fire broke out, and one has been hospitalized for smoke inhalation.
When asked why the wives would commit an immoral act of this nature, an innocent bystander (who was not then nor has he ever been a patron of the parlor house) commented, "The God-fearing women of Danger Cove always turned the other cheek toward the LaSalles and their lot, but when the parlor house offered free services to the townsmen for an 'It's Better to Give Than Receive' holiday promotion, it was the match in the powder barrel—or in the mattress, as it were."
Amy whistled like a sailor at a sorority party. "Do you think it was two for one, or a friend gets in free?"
"I wouldn't know." My tone was as dry as that proverbial powder barrel. "Now let me finish reading."
The Fletcher Way parlor house opened in 1855 when Maxine LaSalle satisfied a pressing need to serve local lumberjacks who supplied timber for building during the Gold Rush. After the gold dried up, the stalwart women of the house continued to shore up the loggers who provided the wood to build this great nation.
Over the years, these hearty women were also called upon to channel their unbridled energy into other worthy causes. They rolled up their stockings and joined both war efforts to support our men in uniform. And in the post-war eras, they put their passion for service to work for our men in the labor force.
When asked about the future of the parlor house in light of the fire, Sabine LaSalle, the present madam and granddaughter of Maxine, said that she and her girls have danced their "last horizontal tango." Among her reasons for closing up shop, the high cost of rebuilding the brothel and dwindling profits due to the increased popularity of other forms of entertainment, including television and board games like Uncle Wiggily, Candy Land, and Easy Money.
The spit soured in my mouth. Something about those board games was disturbing.
Amy reclined in her chair and stared at the screen. "I wonder what happened to the women after the fire."
"Either they moved away or got other jobs." I nudged her arm. "Let's check January third and see whether it says anything about them or the woman who went to the hospital."
She sat forward and entered the date.
The front page popped up, and my eyes popped out.
PARLOR HOUSE PROSTITUTE DEAD? I read the headline as a question, even though it wasn't one. This was the first I'd heard of anyone dying from that fire, and needless to say I was stunned.
And the surprises didn't end there.
Because the brief article that followed was a shocker.
The young woman who was hospitalized after the parlor house fire has died. She has been identified as Mei Liu, a Vietnamese national. Ms. Liu leaves behind a one-year-old daughter, Annabelle, whose father is unknown.
"Holy pho." Amy referenced the provocatively pronounced Vietnamese soup. "Mei Liu has to be Jade Liu's grandmother."
"And Annabelle could be her mother." But who was her father? And did he figure into this mess?
* * *
"If Annabelle was Jade's mother, why was Jade looking for her half uncle, like Lilly said, instead of Annabelle's unknown father? I mean, he would've been her grandfather, so you'd think she'd want to find him." Gia turned the sign in the salon window to Closed. "And did anyone think it was ironic that a man named Harry Cockman worked in wood?"
I couldn't answer her questions. In fact, I couldn't do anything but stare at the Christmas tree my aunt had put in the reception area.
Gia followed my gape. "It looks like a giant pink pipe cleaner, doesn't it?" She pulled a key from the pants pocket of her orange velour tracksuit. "Reminds me of someone I know."
I should've defended my aunt, but the tree was pencil-shaped and pink. "Where did she find those ornaments?"
"In the trunk of her car." She locked the door and pocketed the key. "She has the contents of an entire Target in that U-boat."
"Is that where you buy Barry Manilow balls?"
"The real question is where you buy the plastic horseshoes she used in place of icicles." She sat at her station and picked up a paddle brush. "Could you help me do my hair? I've got a date with Donatello."
I took the brush, glad for a distraction from the latest decoration disaster. Locals were already uncertain about coming to the salon, and I feared the tacky tree would be the tipping point. "What are we doing?"
"Harem hair." She held up a black ponytail extension. "I'm going with an I Dream of Jeannie look since Donatello was so psyched about my bottle bedroom."
If his behavior with the dolls was any indication, then stimulated was a more fitting term.
The back door opened and slammed, causing the cowbell my aunt had hung on the handle to clank.
"I found the fake snow." Magnolia entered the salon holding the spray can high like a hard-earned trophy. "Christmas is saved."
"It's going to take a lot more than fake snow to save this Christmas." Gia's smoky-shadowed eyes met mine in the mirror. "I spent six hundred dollars at Bells and Bristles this afternoon, and that barely replaced a third of our beauty products."
My stomach dropped like I'd swallowed that cowbell. "Did we have any customers or bookings while I was out?"
"The only person who set foot in here was the mailman, if opening the door and throwing the envelopes inside counts as entering."
"But it's party season," I protested. "If they're not coming to The Clip and Sip or Styles and Spirits, then where are they going?"
"Seattle," she replied. "At least, that's the word at Bells and Bristles."
"If that trend continues past the holidays, we'll have to close." I yanked the brush through a tangle.
Gia pulled away. "And if you keep wielding that brush like a rake, I'll have to get another extension."
"Sorry. I'm just so stressed."
"Don't you worry none, sugar plum." My aunt waved a little lasso she'd removed from a branch. "You'll solve this killin'. You've got Gia and me here to help. And don't forgit that you've got Barry in your back pocket."
And on my tree, I thought, glancing over my shoulder at twelve beaming Barrys.
"Now I've been thinkin' about this Mei Liu woman." Magnolia strategically snowed bare branches. "How do you and your library friend know for sure she was kin to Jade?"
I brushed Gia's hair into a high ponytail. "According to Amy's research, there were almost no Vietnamese immigrants in North America before the US withdrawal from Vietnam in 1975. So we're pretty sure that Mei and Jade were related."
"But was this half uncle her mamaw's little one from another man, or her papaw's from another woman?"
"Hold it right there, partner." Gia held up five French-manicured fingernails with Italian flag tips. "Aren't mamaw and papaw Texan for mother and father?"
I reached for the hair spray. "That's mama and papa or ma and pa."
"So mamaw and pawpaw are nonno and nonna?" Gia asked.
My aunt stopped snowing. "Is she talkin' gibberish?"
"Italian." I sprayed the sides of Gia's head. "Why don't we all use the proper English words for grandparents?"
"If you want to be uppity about it, then granny and grandpappy it is." Magnolia started snowing again. "Now, if her mama didn't know who her own papa was, then this half uncle must've been her granny's boy."
"But we don't know if Jade knew
her grandpappy, or even if Annabelle was her mama." I sounded like I was on an episode of Gunsmoke or SpongeBob SquarePants. "Mei could've had other children before or after the brothel."
My aunt pointed a small sawed off shotgun ornament at me. "Sounds like we need to hunt us down us a workin' girl from that chicken ranch."
"That's Texan for 'we need to find a hooker from that whorehouse,'" I translated before Gia could ask. "And Amy and I already tried that. We looked through several years of the Cove Chronicles, but the only names we found were Mei Liu and Sabine LaSalle."
"This is a quandary." Magnolia grabbed her beehive like it was going to buzz off. "Let me ponder it while I fetch the tree skirt from Carlene."
"While you're out there, get that tree a jacket too," Gia called, watching me coil her hair into a bun. "You know, if Sabine were alive, she could probably tell us who the father was. A madam would know something like that."
"She could be alive." I attached the extension to her bun. "Amy tried to find an obituary for her but couldn't. She thinks I should ask Harriet McCudgeon if she knows where Sabine lives since she's been researching the LaSalles."
"The only way that McCurmudgeon would help us is if you introduce her to Magnolia and Gunther. Then you could find out where Sabine is and get us off that tour." She blinked and nodded like Jeannie. "Just like that."
I hurried to my station sink to wash my hands—and splash water on my face. Because the image of Gunther greeting Harriet was way too tempting.
Gia's "Santa Baby" message tone sounded, which reminded me that I needed to check the sleigh display for any sex doll–style debauchery before I went to bed.
"Marone," she whined, invoking the Madonna as she read her phone. "Someone let the air out of Donatello's tires, so we're going out tomorrow night instead." She shot up in her seat. "I'll bet it was The Ferret."
"Who?"
"Tiffany Ferres, a waitress at The Apple Tree. She's got a long pointy nose and beady eyes, and she slinks around town trying to ferret away my Donny." She clenched her five Italian flags into a fist. "I'll bet she did this to stop him from taking me out tonight."
"Don't decide it was her without any evidence." I dried my hands on a towel. "It could've been someone he arrested."
The cowbell clanked, and Magnolia stomped into the salon with the skirt. "We've got comp'ny, girls. If you can call it that."
Detective Marshall entered in his usual black suit followed by Detective Ohlsen in navy blue.
My gut twisted like the towel I was holding. The sight of both men together made me think the worst—that they'd come to arrest my cousin.
"Evening ladies." Detective Ohlsen nodded. Then his eyes grew to the size of two Barry balls. "That's quite a tree."
Detective Marshall sized up the pink monstrosity like it was a crime suspect, which it kind of was. "Is that the lone star on top?"
If my aunt had been chewing tobacco, she would've spat. "Only a yellow-bellied Yankee wouldn't recognize the Dallas Cowboy star."
"Uh, excuse us." I grabbed her by the arm—in case she was packing. "Why don't you make us some of your sweet tea?"
"This isn't a tea party, Miss Conti." Detective Marshall crossed his arms. "This is police business."
"No duh," Gia said from her salon chair.
His glare hit her like a bullet to the forehead. "I'll get to the point. There was cyanide in the nail polish that killed Jade Liu."
Gia and I feigned surprise, but I could tell from the detective's blank stare that we'd failed spectacularly.
"Funny thing about that polish—besides the name Poison Poinsettia." His eyes reloaded and took aim at my cousin like one of the shotguns from the tree. "The brand on the bottle is Mad Makeup."
She sprung to her tiger-striped UGGs. "Don't try pinning this on us. We have a note from the killer proving we're not the poisoners." She looked at Detective Ohlsen. "Tell him."
"Bud showed me the nefarious note." Detective Marshall chuckled but didn't smile. "It's typed, it has no fingerprints, and it showed up right when you girls needed an out."
Magnolia erupted from the break room brandishing a pitcher like a pistol and wearing the "Merry Christmas, y'all" tree skirt around her shoulders. She looked like a psychotic Southern superhero. "That note is the work of a killer with a dull knife, and his name is on the last page of Vincent's client list." She pointed the pitcher at Detective Marshall. "Now if I were you, I'd git on over to the church and chew the cud with Reverend Vickers. Because according to that list, his Eucharistic knife couldn't cut melted butter, and I hear tell he played confessional with Jade Liu the mornin' she was murdered."
"Aunt Magnolia, don't say another word."
"Cassidi?" Detective Ohlsen prodded as Detective Marshall stared me down. "Is there something you need to tell us?"
To buy time, I took the pitcher from my aunt and placed it on my station. I hadn't wanted her to tell the detectives that Jade's grandmother worked at the brothel, but I couldn't admit to that until I'd cleared Gia and myself of any involvement in the murder. "I went to talk to The Reverend."
"You know you can't interfere in a police investigation." Detective Ohlsen's tone was fatherly but firm. "We've had this conversation before."
Detective Marshall snorted. "This one's going to need to be locked up to learn her lesson, Bud."
My aunt lowered her hive and held the red tree skirt like a matador holds a cape. "You lay finger on my niece, and I'll learn you a lesson, you—"
"No one's going to do anything to Cassidi, Miss Magnolia." Detective Ohlsen grabbed the pitcher and shot the side-eye at Detective Marshall. "So why don't you serve me some of your sweet tea?" He wrapped an arm around her in a restraining embrace and ushered her toward the break room. "I hear it's the best in the South."
"Oh, my stars." She turned so pink that even her beehive seemed to be blushing. "I don't know if it's that good."
Detective Marshall watched them leave and moved in on me like a SWAT officer on a suspected shooter. "Now that your buddy Bud and your ornery aunt are gone, I'm going to tell you how things are. I spoke to Reverend Vickers today too, and he told me about your little visit." He stopped to sneer. "And about Jade's grandmother's connection to this place."
So The Reverend did go to the police—to incriminate me.
The detective clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. "I also questioned Ivy Li again this afternoon."
"Did she happen to confess that she came here while we were out and stole my nail polish?" Gia asked.
"Yes, because the killer poisoned that polish to try to silence Gia and me," I said. "So even you have to admit that none of us—and that includes the killer—could've predicted that Ivy would steal the polish, much less use it on a client."
"I don't have to admit a blasted thing." He stopped and rubbed his the stubble on his chin. "Because there's a problem with that theory."
"Could you elaborate?" I pressed.
"The polish didn't kill Jade Liu."
Gia's Italian flags flew to her face. "What a freakin' relief."
But I wasn't relieved. Because I knew what he was going to say next.
What I didn't know was whether Jade Liu had felt the same dizziness, breathlessness, and nausea that I was currently experiencing when my peach liqueur was poisoning her.
CHAPTER NINE
POISON PAYBACK? The morning headline screamed from the counter of The Apple Tree diner. And I didn't have to read the article to know that Ivy had followed through with her threat to go to the press.
But I did read it.
True to her word, Ivy told Duncan Pickles that the Poison Poinsettia polish and the peach liqueur had come from The Clip and Sip, neglecting to mention how. She was more specific, however, about my attempts to blame her for every misfortune that befell me and my salon—accusations, she maintained, that increased in proportion to the success of Styles and Spirits.
And the implications didn't end there.
She sai
d that I'd disproven the theory that Texans were friendly, and she went so far as to liken me, my aunt, and Gia to "Butch Cassidy's Wild Bunch meets Al 'Scarface' Capone."
Normally, I would've been outraged by the comparison, but where Magnolia and Gia were concerned, it wasn't all that inaccurate. And I had my hands full trying to remove the bull's-eyes that the killer and, as of the previous night, Detective Marshall had put on my back.
"Cassidi Conti?"
The gruff male voice sent footprints of fear sprinting down my spine. The diner was a favorite breakfast hangout of the Danger Cove police, so I spun on my stool expecting to see the detective with an arrest warrant.
It was the manager with a credit card receipt.
"Sorry to scare you." He handed me the slip of paper. "The kitchen is running behind, so I refunded your to-go order. It'll be out in a few minutes."
"Thank you." I attempted a smile, but the weight of my problems kept my mouth muscles down.
Opting to go incognito, I pulled the hood of my coat over my head and turned back to the horrible headline. The way I saw it, my priorities, in order of importance, were to stay (a) alive, (b) out of jail, and (c) in business. But I wasn't sure how to do those things when the only clear suspect in Jade's murder was me.
"Can you believe it?" The petulant voice pierced my brain. "Olivia Olcott's going to be in the living nativity."
Using my hood as a cover, I peered over my shoulder. While I'd been preoccupied with the paper, Mallory Winchester, a nosy PTAer and notorious pain, had been seated in the corner booth behind me with none other than Harriet McCudgeon, the gossip-digging Gold Rush History Tour leader.
"I mean, Mary in the manger?" Mallory shook off her coat but not her contempt. "What kind of message does that send to the children?"
At first I thought she was referring to Olivia's affair with Robbie the pool boy. But it occurred to me that the depiction of Jesus's mother as a fifty-something society snob could send the wrong message too.
A Poison Manicure & Peach Liqueur Page 9
