A Poison Manicure & Peach Liqueur

by Traci Andrighetti

  I gathered that Gunner was her shotgun. "He's a police officer, Aunt M. He knows how to handle firearms."

  "Luckily for everyone here." Donatello gave Magnolia a reproachful look and leaned the shotgun against the garage. "I was telling your aunt that she's looking at a $5000 fine or three hundred and sixty-four days in jail or both for discharging a firearm in public.

  My anxiety level skyrocketed so high it could've hit the North Pole. "But she was trying to protect us."

  "I can appreciate your concern," Donatello said, pulling out the cop talk, "but I couldn't find evidence of a prowler."

  "Don't worry, baby doll. I've got me a Texas license."

  Gia exited the house. "FYI, you're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

  "I know she's your kin," Magnolia whispered, "but there's a light or two burned out on her string."

  "Yes, well" was all I could think of to say.

  Donatello swaggered to my aunt. "Ma'am, you'll have to follow me to my car so I can write you a misdemeanor citation. And you'll need to turn over your, uh, Gunner and Gunther."

  Magnolia lunged for the shotgun and pulled it to her chest like she was protecting a baby from the bogeyman. "In the words of my fellow statesmen who valiantly protected their cannon from Mexican forces during the Texas Revolution, 'Come and take it.'"

  Fearing she was about to defend her territory, I led her to the parking lot that separated The Clip and Sip from the fish market. "Why don't you two discuss this standoff in the car?"

  "Don't mind if I do," she replied. "But it'll be a cold day in Houston before I surrender."

  And before I set foot in that car.

  "Hey, Cass." Gia pointed to a light stand in the yard. "Did you turn that on?"

  "How'd that get there?" I walked to the front of the building, and the breath left my lungs.

  Someone had aimed a spotlight at my house, and it was as bright as the Star of Bethlehem on the night Jesus was born. Only it wasn't there to reveal the birth of the Messiah to the Magi, but rather the holiday hate messages spray-painted on the façade.

  Santa's Sluts and Merry KissMyAs.

  "Oh, fuuudge." Gia drew out the expression like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, but she used the word he'd really said to his father.

  To keep from choking Donatello, I crossed my arms and tucked my hands in my armpits. "You couldn't find any evidence of a prowler?"

  "Yo, that light wasn't on when we got here," he said, returning to his (Sylvester) Stallone speak. "Someone must've turned it on after we pulled into the parking lot."

  "And started making out," I said. "At least now you have all the evidence you need to prove my aunt did see a prowler."

  "If I see 'em again," Magnolia shouted, raising Gunner high, "I'm gonna blow 'em clean into the New Year."

  Gia snatched the shotgun. "You won't have to, because I'm going snake hunting."

  Donatello lifted her with one arm and took the gun.

  "Don't mess with me, Donny. I was captain of my high school drill team, and I can kick." As proof, Gia heaved her thigh highs like a Radio City Rockette at the Christmas Spectacular.

  With Gia still kicking, Donatello walked to his Dodge Charger and placed Gunner in the trunk. "Have a seat in the front, Mrs. Crabtree."

  Gia's legs went slack. "Crabtree? Your aunt's last name is a tree too?"

  It was my aunt's third husband's name, and I'd been hoping that little detail wouldn't come up.

  Donatello deposited Gia on the ground, and he and my aunt climbed into the car.

  "Sorry about the cops, girls." Filly Filipuzzi strode across the parking lot in a tight brown tracksuit that accentuated his Santa-sized belly. "If I'd known the cupcake over there was the one doing the shooting, I wouldn't have called."

  "The cupcake?" Gia's forehead wrinkled. "Are you talking about Officer Stallone?"

  "Aaay! Oooh!" Filly held up his hands, shielding himself from her verbal attack on his masculinity. "I'm talking about the dame with the strawberry icing on top."

  The cupcake analogy was new. And alarming. "Thanks, Mr. Filipuzzi. But what are you doing here this time of night?"

  "Gutting cod before my holiday Tail Sale tomorrow." He wiped sweat from his balding head. "Either of you girls need any? On the house."

  The only gutted cod I wanted for Christmas was Calvin. "We're having ham and tamales."

  "It's a free country." He pulled a half-smoked cigar from his pocket and pointed it at the house. "Shame about the graffiti, but that red and green paint is Christmasy."

  Somehow its festiveness was lost on me. "I'll try to paint over it before your customers come."

  "No rush, eh?" He stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth. "This used to happen when your uncle owned the place, and it was good for business."

  I blinked. "People spray-painted nasty graffiti then too?"

  "Nothing as creative as this. It was predictable, you know. Just a Gigolo, American Gigolo." He removed the cigar and tapped my arm with the tip. "Or my favorite, Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo."

  "Is it me, or am I hearing a recurring theme?" Gia asked.

  It wasn't her. And I didn't like the theme at all. "My uncle was a womanizer—"

  "Who made a grand an hour doing what he loved." Filly raised his unruly brow, and for some reason I thought of Uncle Wiggily and cringed.

  Gia's eyes were as round as rolled condoms. "He made a G an hour for—"

  "You must be mistaken," I interrupted. "My uncle died with almost nothing to his name but this building and the Ferrari."

  "That's what he wanted the IRS to think." He flashed tobacco-stained teeth. "But between the gigolo gig and the Viagra, he was pulling in an extra five grand a week. And knowing Vinnie, he was hiding it in the house."

  Gia sprinted to the porch and kicked her heels, not like a Rockette but a leprechaun doing a jig. "Merry KissMyAs, everyone!"

  Filly opened his arms. "It's nice seeing young people excited about the holidays."

  And the promise of stashed cash. "Mr. Filipuzzi, you were my uncle's friend. Who do you think killed him?"

  He jutted out his lower lip. "Someone who didn't like his side activities, kid. But part of the reason he did those things was to give back to the community."

  I'd heard of lots of ways to "give back," but counterfeit Viagra rings and prostitution weren't among them. "And the other part?"

  "He lost a bundle in the savings and loan bust, so he didn't have collateral. The side businesses were part of a private arrangement to help him buy this property."

  "A private arrangement?" My Aunt Carla and Gia were convinced my uncle had connections to the mafia in Atlantic City, where he was from, and I was starting to think they were right. "Like, with the mob?"

  "Ca'maan. Those people are crooks." He glanced over his shoulder at Donatello and then leaned so close I could feel his breath on my ear. "With the previous owner of his, and your, building."

  My insides turned as squishy as his saliva-soaked cigar. He didn't have to tell me the previous owner's name because I already knew it.

  Sabine LaSalle.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Harriet pointed to a ticket dispenser outside the window of the Gold Rush History Tour's tollbooth-style office. "Take a number, please."

  It was nine a.m. and seemingly subzero on the pier, so I didn't need to look around to know I was her only customer. "What for? No one else is here."

  "Did you make an appointment?"

  "You know I didn't."

  "Then take a number and have a seat." Her double chin and the three red Christmas balls on her bowler bobbed as she spoke. "I'll call you when it's your turn." She slammed the window.

  I ripped a ticket from the machine and flopped onto a bench that faced the Gold Rush History Tours office. It was so cold I pulled my knees to my chest and gave Harriet an icy glare, which wasn't hard with Jack Frost nipping on my nose.

  Her lips leveled into a line, and she folded her hands on the counter, making it clear that
she had nothing to do but make me wait.

  Rather than suffer her smugness, I pulled my phone from my purse and realized that I hadn't turned it on after the tense conversation with Zac. I removed my glove and pressed Power.

  No missed calls.

  By this point, I was so hot and bothered that my nose began to thaw. Even though I had no desire to speak to Zac, I couldn't believe he hadn't called back. Apparently, we were having our first fight.

  Footsteps shuffled along the pier, and someone sang the shanty "Yo Ho and a Bottle of Rum."

  I looked for the pirate and saw Isaac Jagger, an octogenarian who came into the salon for an occasional shave. He didn't have a peg leg, but he did have shaky hips. When he walked he gyrated, kind of like his famous surname-sake danced.

  "Morning, Lizzie." He tipped his trapper hat and nodded at my purse. "I see you're pet-sitting today."

  I glanced at the brown suede fabric of my bag. "Um, I'm Cassidi, Mr. Jagger. From The Clip and Sip?"

  His clear eyes squinted behind his glasses. "So you are."

  "Are you here to book a tour? Because you'll need to take a number." I looked icicles at Harriet, who was peering at us from her perch.

  "What I need is to rest my legs." His whole body shook as he lowered himself onto the bench. "I was born and raised in Danger Cove, so I've seen all the sights."

  I wasn't sure he had since he'd mistaken my purse for a pet. "Sounds like you could start your own tour company." And run Harriet out of town.

  "I'll leave that to you whippersnappers." He patted his thigh. "This Hanukkah shopping is already too much for these old limbs."

  His shopping reference reminded me that I'd heard him and The Reverend in a fierce debate at Carolyn's Coffee and Creamery over which religion's holiday meal was more divine—the Christian roast turkey or the Jewish Peking duck—so I decided to press him for information. "Did you by any chance know Reverend Vickers' father?"

  "Now why would you want to know about Joe Vickers?"

  The Reverend's father had a j-name like Clark's and Randall's dads, John and Jim.

  My mouth opened and closed like Calvin the Cod's as I tried to come up with a plausible answer. "Uh, The Clip and Sip is doing hair and makeup for the living nativity tomorrow, and I started wondering about The Reverend's family."

  The wrinkles around Isaac's eyes spread with his smile. "They were colorful folk. His mother came from a vaudeville family, and I think Joe had the acting bug too."

  "Did he love the theater as much as his son does?"

  "He must have." Isaac laugh-hacked. "I went over to his house once and saw him in a dress."

  The parts of me that were still unfrozen froze. Was The Reverend's father the man Mei had written about? "Did you ask him about it?"

  He tugged at the collar of his coat. "Men didn't discuss dresses back then, and I was there to get crabs."

  Did I have brain freeze? Because that wasn't a sentence I thought I'd hear anyone say. "I'm sorry. Crabs?"

  "He was a crabber by trade. Sold them by the case out of his house."

  Joe's line of work was the only detail that didn't match with Mei's essay. Or did it? I wasn't sure whether a crabber qualified as a fisherman, but she might have thought so, especially since her language skills were limited.

  "Number one?" Harriet looked around like she didn't know I was the "one" waiting.

  Isaac pushed off the bench. "That's my cue to get shopping."

  "Last call for number one." Harriet used a warning tone, as though there were a two.

  I fantasized about breaking her balls and approached the window. "So, I came to ask—"

  "Ticket, please."

  I slammed my number on the counter.

  "Here at Gold Rush History, we've got a solid gold itinerary." She semi-sang the slogan. "Our inaugural tour is New Year's Day. Shall I reserve it for you?"

  The look I gave her was glacial. "Save the sales spiel. I'm here about Sabine LaSalle."

  "Why would I know anything about her?"

  "Because you've been researching her for your tour."

  Harriet's face hardened into what Gia described as her "constantly constipated look." "I'll rephrase my question. Why would I tell you anything about her?"

  "You're about to make money off my salon and its brothel history, so you owe me."

  "Actually, I don't. You'll make money off my tours because some of my customers will visit your salon." She snort-laughed and raised her chubby chin. "There are always a few whack jobs with a death wish."

  I would've been offended, but I wanted those whack jobs—at least until my clients came back. "All I need to know is whether Sabine's alive and, if so, where she lives."

  "And all I need is the exclusive right to add the second floor of your house to my tour." She punctuated the proclamation with a self-assured smile.

  Her declaration left me as unsteady as Mr. Jagger. "That bowler must be weighing on your brain because no one in their right mind would think that I'd let tourists tramp through my home."

  "What's the problem?" She looked me up and down like I was the hat-brained one. "We'd be there during business hours when you're downstairs working."

  "Yes, in my hair salon. The building hasn't been a brothel for over half a century, so what's there to see?"

  Her gaze took on a lusty gleam. "The Bottoms Up bar, the Hope, Faith, and Charity picture, and those sexy bedroom sinks."

  Harriet had done her research on my residence, which convinced me to strike a deal about Sabine—and to rid the place of the provocative relics as soon as I had the chance. "I'll agree to a month."

  "A year, and I need it in writing."

  "You should really buy a lighter hat so your head trauma can heal."

  She lowered an eyelid. "The good Lord hasn't seen fit to strike Sabine LaSalle down. So how badly do you want to save your salon?"

  If the tour business failed, Harriet had a future in fishing because she could really bait a hook. And I had to bite because The Clip and Sip was everything to me—my uncle's legacy, my home, my business. And speaking of business, I wasn't leaving town until Zac and I had resolved ours to my satisfaction. "Give me something to write with."

  She produced a piece of paper and a Christmas bulb pen that glowed as bright as the greed in her green eyes.

  Gripping the pen like I was squeezing her conniving body, I wrote and signed a contract. Then I held it out of her reach. "First you give me the rest of what I came for."

  "Well this is going to be an uneasy partnership." She threw her scarf over her shoulder and scribbled something on a Post-it.

  We exchanged papers at the same time.

  The note contained a Seattle address and an alias that would've made Olivia Cockman Olcott cringe.

  Scarlet Cockman.

  Otherwise known as Sabine LaSalle.

  * * *

  "Yo, Sabine must've been making some scratch off Vinnie to live in this 'hood." Gia gaped at the homes on Seattle's exclusive Queen Anne Hill from Carlene's passenger window. "Either that or the 'It's Better to Give Than Receive' promo in '55 really raked in the racks."

  Given the seedy origins of the funds, I would've preferred money to scratch or racks. But I had to agree with her about the neighborhood. "Yeah, these houses are gorgeous. The cheapest is probably worth a cool million."

  "Your place looks gorgeous too, now that I've painted over those horrible messages on the front." Magnolia glanced at me from the rearview mirror. Because she'd battened down her beehive with a black scarf and donned matching cat-eye sunglasses, she looked like a villain from Hairspray.

  "I appreciate that, Aunt M. And your hard work." I glanced at my phone. Two o'clock. "Are we getting close?"

  "These hilltop streets have got me as confused as a goat on AstroTurf. Let me git my GPS goin'."

  Carlene might've been made in 1975, but she was more tricked out than a James Bond car. Besides GPS, she had a radar and laser detection system, voice-activated phone service,
and a thermal imaging camera. I wouldn't have been surprised if there were twin machine guns—or better, shotguns—hidden behind her sidelights like the ones on the Aston Martin in Goldfinger.

  My aunt entered the address in a tablet computer on the dash. "It's down the road apiece."

  "Don't say 'piece' because I'm starving for lunch." Gia eyed a fruitcake she'd found in the glove compartment. "Why couldn't this be panettone?"

  Magnolia's eyes grew as round as glacé cherries. "You want to eat shampoo?"

  "Not Panteen, Aunt M. Gia's talking about an Italian Christmas bread with raisins or candied fruit."

  "Well, I bought that fruitcake at the Texaco back home in It'ly," she said. "So it is Italian Christmas bread with candied fruit, like your pontoon, or whatever you call it."

  "It's only Italian if it's from Jersey or New York." Gia's tone was as worldly as her words.

  I leaned on the headrest and chewed my thumbnail. Unless Harriet had called Sabine and confessed to giving me her address, then the unscrupulous ex-madam didn't know I was coming to dredge up her past. And I was so nervous about how she'd react I almost wished my aunt hadn't given up her guns to Donatello. But not quite.

  "Don't bite your nails, baby doll." Magnolia scowled at me from the mirror. "They'll stay stumps."

  "I can't help it." I put my hand in my coat pocket. "I'm anxious."

  "You are?" Gia's said through cheeksful of cake. "I'm going to have to see The McCurmudgeon's smug mug every day for a year. And the stress is so intense I'm eating a friggin' gas station fruitcake."

  I shifted in my seat. We'd been all over the Harriet contract, and I wasn't going to discuss it again. I'd been so desperate to get Sabine's address that I didn't think the agreement through. And when I'd broken the news to Gia, it became apparent I had two new crises on my hands—The McCurmudgeon and my cousin.

  "We need some holiday music to lighten the mood." Magnolia reached into the console.

  "A Barry Merry Christmas?" Gia quipped.

  My aunt arched an eyebrow above her sunglasses. "You know darn good 'n' well there's no such song. And besides, the Manilow brand would not commercialize the Lord's birthday."