Killer Eyeshadow and a Cold Espresso (A Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery) Page 11

  "Viola's adorable, isn't she?" Amy's tone was affectionate.

  "She's cute." But something dark lurks beneath the surface. "Oh, darn it. Do you know Herb's last name or contact information? I forgot to ask Viola."

  Amy folded her hands in front of her mouth. "Were you a Girl Scout, Cassidi?"

  I returned to my chair. The question was random, which guaranteed a problem. "For a couple of years. Why?"

  "Before I tell you how to find Herb, I'm going to need Scout's honor that you won't do anything irrational." She raised three fingers.

  I sighed and threw up mine. "Scout's honor."

  "His last name is McCudgeon."

  My Scout's honor plummeted. "As in, Harriet?"

  "As in, her husband." Amy plunged her fists into her cardigan pockets. "And her tour bus driver."

  I exhaled all the air from my body, deflating.

  "But before you talk to him, there's a plot twist in A Pocket Full of Rye you should know about."

  The news about Herb had me twisted like a tree knot—I wasn't sure I could handle another. "Please make it as painless as possible?"

  Amy took a deep breath in preparation. "Inspector Neele thought the taxine had been put in Rex Fortescue's tea at the office because he died after drinking it. But Miss Marple deduced that he'd ingested the poison several hours before in the marmalade he was served for breakfast at his mansion."

  That was painless, and promising. Because it could prove that Gia and I hadn't poisoned Jesse. "Is that a typical amount of time for taxine to take effect?"

  "I'm sure the time varies based on the dosage and the health of the individual."

  "But you're saying that Jesse could've been poisoned hours before Gia served him the espresso?"

  "That and one other thing." Amy tucked her lips over her teeth and looked around the library.

  "Are you going to tell me what the other thing is?"

  "I'm afraid I can't make it painless."

  I pulled my bag to my chest. "Go ahead and say it."

  "You and Gia have definitely been framed."

  * * *

  Amy's words weighed on me as I walked to my car. I'd been fearing that Gia and I had been framed, but it was jarring to hear her—and, in a sense, Agatha Christie—confirm it.

  I climbed into the Ferrari, and my phone began to ring. Zac. I'd been neglecting him because of Jesse's death, and it was time to rectify that situation. "Hey, you. Let's do something this weekend."

  "I was calling to suggest dinner at the Lobster Pot this Friday."

  Our special occasion place. My chest swelled with hope. Had Zac sold his yacht design? "Are we celebrating something?"

  "We are." He paused for effect. "Us."

  Normally, I would have melted at the romantic sentiment. But since there was no longer a chance of finding Bart Coffyn's treasure, I would've preferred to hear that he'd found a way to buy Pirate's Hook Marine Services. Of course, I couldn't let him know that. "Then I happily accept. An evening with just the two of us sounds like heaven right now."

  "Is everything okay?" His tone held a hint of concern. "Or is Lester Marshall still harassing you about Rothman?"

  A flash of black caught my attention in the rearview mirror, and it wasn't one of the detective's cheap suits. A figure in a hooded trench coat, slacks, and tennis shoes seemed to be watching me from the side of Ingall Hardware across the street. Whoever it was had accessorized with sunglasses, gloves, and a scarf that covered the lower half of their face.

  It was normal to bundle up during a Washington winter, but the temperature outside was around fifty degrees. And the head-to-toe black was mafioso, except that it was more sophisticated.

  Was it a member of the British firms?

  Rhys?

  Or was it Katrina? Like Rhys, she was around six feet, which was more or less the height of the figure, and muscular. And with her pixie obscured by the hood, it would be easy to mistake her for a man.

  "You still there, Cass?"

  "Huh? Oh, yes. Everything's fine." At least, I thought it was—except for the fact that I'd forgotten I was on the phone with him. "What's the latest on Clark's plan to sell Pirate's Hook?"

  "He's working with Abigail Harris at the Savings & Loan to calculate the value of the business. He'll probably put it on the market within a week or two."

  The news was as unsettling as the presence of the dark figure. "Can Clark secure your job with the buyer?"

  "He can try. But nothing is guaranteed."

  "Well, whoever buys it will need a manager, and you're the obvious choice." I glanced in the rearview mirror.

  The figure flattened against the side of the building.

  Damn. I'd tipped my hand.

  "Cassidi?" Zac's pitch had risen from concerned to alarmed. "What's going on?"

  I didn't want to tell him that I might have a stalker, because I knew he'd leave work, and I felt perfectly safe in the Ferrari. "I'm sorry, Zac. I just left the library. I've been running errands, and I've got one more to take care of."

  "Ah. Well, call me later when you're free, all right?"

  "I will. Love you." I closed the call without waiting for him to return the sentiment. I had to get to that errand—at Ingall Hardware.

  I started the engine and pulled from the parking lot. I hit the gas, and my tires squealed as I crossed the street and entered the hardware store lot. If the dark figure was still around, I wanted to send a message. This Texas girl wasn't going to tolerate being framed or followed anymore.

  I drove around the building twice, but there was no sign of the trench coat.

  As I headed back to the salon, my gut was heavy like I'd swallowed a concrete shoe. I couldn't shake the fear that the dark figure had come to carry out the hit Jesse Rothman had ordered on Gia and me. If that was the case, he or she would resurface. And when that happened, there was almost nothing we could do to stop them from carrying out their murder mission.

  * * *

  "All right, prospectors," Harriet crowed from atop the Gold Rush History Tours bus. "It's time to get a gander inside this bawdy chicken ranch. Oops! I mean, The Clip and Sip."

  A twig pricked my temple, and I snapped it from the shallon shrub that I was crouching in next to the porch. Ironically, I wasn't hiding from the trench-coated figure, but rather Harriet McCudgeon. And I was seriously on edge. It was five p.m., and in the hours since Duncan Pickles had published his taxine article, Harriet had revised her spiel to portray Gia and me as deranged assassins who attacked innocent people with poison and garden hoses.

  "Off the bus, everyone!" Harriet nudged an older couple from their seats. "The den of whores, murderers, and water sprayers awaits."

  I snapped off another twig and twisted it around my fingers as Harriet exited the bus and led the prospectors up the steps to the salon. It was all I could do not to grab the hose and go all Ben Bardsley on her.

  "Hello, McCurmudgeon." Gia's tone dripped disdain. "I've been waiting for you all afternoon."

  My cousin's statement was alarming, much like the threat of shrub squirrels, but I couldn't do anything about it without blowing my cover.

  The salon door slammed shut, and I parted the branches.

  The area was clear of tourists.

  On the off chance Harriet watched from a window, I crawled from the shrub and sprinted in a serpentine fashion to the bus.

  Herb, her husband slash driver, sat behind the wheel reading The Hidden Life of Trees. He was remarkably hairy for such a small, thin man, a kind of hybrid between a hippy and a troll. His tousled gray-brown hair flowed past his shoulders, as did his mustache and beard. And his eyebrows threatened to spill over as well.

  I knocked on the glass door, and he jumped and touched his hair, as though I were armed with a hose—and hair-cutting shears.

  "Go away. We have nothing to discuss."

  I was sure Harriet had forbidden him from speaking to Gia or me, which was why I'd hidden from her. But I had a spiel of my own prepared,
one a tree lover like Herb wouldn't be able to knock down. "Viola Aster from the Garden Club sent me. I have a tree question that only you can answer."

  His tongue emerged from his lips, and his hand shot to the door release, where it hovered.

  "In your official capacity as the founder and president of the Danger Cove Tree Society." I almost curtsied, but I went with a respectful nod instead.

  Fingers with nails that rivaled Gia's in length grasped the handle, and the glass opened. "Get in before my wife sees us."

  I climbed aboard.

  "Get down. Get down!" He swiped his bear claws at me and emitted a dank, musty odor.

  I hunkered between the seat and the protective metal panel by the steps, trying not to get another sniff. "Whether you believe me or not, my cousin and I are being framed for poisoning Jesse Rothman."

  Herb crossed his arms against his suede fringe jacket. "Sounds like you're up a gum tree."

  I didn't know what the expression meant, but I latched on to the tree part. "That's where you come in." I widened my eyes and decided to soften my tone—something he undoubtedly never heard at home. "I need information about the yew tree to prove that Gia and I are innocent, and you're the only person with the expertise to help."

  His beard bobbled, and the hair on his brows seemed to bristle. Resolute, he reached into a frayed messenger bag at his feet.

  I closed my eyes so that I wouldn't have to see his toenails curling around his Birkenstocks. When I heard pages turning, I peered between my lashes.

  Herb browsed The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Trees. "You've got your Pacific yew, your Chinese yew, your Japanese yew, your Canadian yew, and your English yew. All of 'em except the Pacific are poisonous."

  He might've looked like a hippy troll, but his speech was as slow and methodical as that of a Southern farmer. "Are any of the poisonous ones in Danger Cove or the surrounding area?"

  He stroked his brows. "Until three or so years ago, Georgette Potter over on Pine Bluff Road had a Japanese yew in her front yard. But she had it removed after the incidents."

  "Incidents?"

  "The tree killed a moose." He stomped a sandal, outraged at the memory. "And her gardener."

  Odd that the gardener didn't warrant an earlier mention. "Are all of the poisonous yews so toxic?"

  "For corn's sake, yes. Especially the English yew." He ran his fingernails through his beard and worked a tangle. "And at least one has been located in Washington."

  Surprised, I stood. "Is it near here?"

  "Are you out of your tree, woman?"

  I gave him a blank stare. I got the word tree, and that was it.

  He waved his arms and kicked his curly toenailed feet. "Get down. My wife could see you."

  I glanced over my shoulder and returned to my crouched position.

  Herb adjusted his facial hair. "The exact location of the English yew wasn't disclosed, and it could've been removed by now. But it was listed on an official report for the state, which is close enough. A few leaf fragments are enough to kill a person."

  The seed beneath the vanity came to mind. "What about the seeds? Are they poisonous?"

  "You bet they are. They're the most toxic part of the tree, and more so during winter. The only part that isn't is the aril, the fleshy red covering of the seed."

  When I'd pulled up pictures of the yew tree on my phone, I hadn't seen any red covering. "Does your book have pictures of the aril?"

  An exasperated sigh escaped his mustache. "Why do you think they call it an illustrated encyclopedia?"

  Herb was huffy, like Harriet. "You're right. Would you please show me one?"

  "It's a vibrant red orange, but with a brown seed in one end." He turned a few pages and tapped an image with a long, yellowed nail. "Here you go."

  A clawing sensation raked my gut.

  The aril and seed looked exactly like the berries in the exotic flower arrangement George Fontaine had delivered to Gia.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Herb closed the bus door behind me, catching a lock of my hair between the rubber seals. Nevertheless, I broke into a run. My fear about the yew berry discovery propelled me forward, and anyway, I had a salon full of extensions. I sprinted up the sidewalk to the porch, hurdled the steps, and threw open the salon door.

  To shouting.

  There was a fight on the second floor.

  I headed for the stairs to break it up, but skidded to a stop.

  The exotic floral arrangement wasn't on the reception desk. Or on Gia's makeup station.

  A door slammed above, and the shouts became screams. And a wail?

  I raced to the stairs.

  Another wail.

  My legs went leaden.

  That last one wasn't human. It was a police siren.

  Detective Marshall was coming to arrest us for Jesse's murder, but I couldn't fathom how he'd found out about the yew berries.

  The flowers. He'd looked at them so strangely when he'd knocked them off the reception desk. He could've suspected that the berries were the source of the poison and then gone to get confirmation.

  A self-preservation instinct surged through my limbs. I couldn't let him lock up Gia and me, not yet. I had to find an attorney or recruit Zac to help us.

  The siren blared on our street.

  I rushed to the salon door to lock it.

  A squad car with flashing lights pulled up where the Gold Rush History Tours bus had been parked. The door opened, and I broke into a sweat. An officer climbed out with a buff bod, black hair, and a low brow.

  Donatello Stallone.

  Detective Marshall wouldn't send Gia's boyfriend to arrest us. So why was he here?

  Gia.

  What was it she'd said to Harriet while I was hiding in the shrub? I've been waiting for you all afternoon?

  My self-preservation instinct was flushed out by anger-fueled adrenaline. My cousin had followed through with her Operation Goldfinger plan to have Donatello confront Harriet, and she hadn't looped me in. If I weren't a suspect in Jesse's poisoning, I would have been tempted to turn her in for yew berry possession.

  Leaving the door unlocked, I marched upstairs to take on my cousin, the McCurmudgeon, and her prospectors.

  The shouting and screaming had stopped, and when I got to the second floor, I found out the reason.

  A standoff was in progress.

  Big Ron barred my Uncle Vinnie's door with his hulking body. Gia stood next to him, still sporting the tiara and Union Jack while wielding a curling iron that was plugged in to a wall socket. Alex Jordan stood with her back to them in a defensive lineman position.

  The threesome were warding off Harriet, who scraped her feet on the floor like a bull about to charge.

  "Everyone get a grip," I shouted. "Except you, Gia. Drop the curling iron."

  "Not a chance, cug." She made a fencing jab with the hot styling tool. "I caught the Gold Digger trying to get into Vinnie's room."

  "Danger Cove PD."

  We turned to the stairwell.

  Donatello was in his relaxed police officer pose—chest puffed out, legs slightly spread, hands on belt—calling attention to his six-pack abs, gun, and package. "Someone reported crime scene tampering?"

  Harriet removed her bowler. "I have a signed contract that gives my clients and me unrestricted access to this property."

  "Speaking of your clients"—I glanced around—"where are they?"

  Alex looked apologetic. "I sent them down the hall. They're at the Bottoms Up bar."

  Enjoying drinks on the house, no doubt.

  Donatello sauntered toward Harriet, emitting wafts of Dolce & Gabbana cologne. "Vincent Conti's bedroom is an active crime scene, ma'am. If you try to enter said scene"—he paused and tapped his handcuffs—"I'll have no choice but to bring out these guys."

  I rolled my eyes. "Thank you, Officer Stallone. I'll take it from here."

  His chest went concave, and his hands slid from his belt.

  "Uh-uh. No." Gi
a waved her weapon. "I'm the one who called him, and I say he should take the McCurmudgeon to the clink."

  "Give me that." I snatched the curling iron. "Please see Officer Stallone to the door so Harriet and I can chat."

  She glowered but took Donatello's hand and strutted him and her thigh-highs to the stairs.

  Alex cleared her throat. "Time to get back to work." She pushed Big Ron to the stairs. "We'll be in the tower room if you need us."

  I unplugged the curling iron. "You heard the officer, Harriet. My uncle's room is off limits, so gather your prospectors and leave."

  "You think you're so smart, but you'll be hearing from my attorney. In the meantime, I'll see you tomorrow for the eight a.m. tour."

  "I wouldn't be so confident."

  "And why's that, pray tell?"

  "When Officer Stallone pulled up, your driver split with the bus."

  Her chubby cheeks blew up, and she tossed the bowler onto her head and stomped toward the bar. "I'm going to fire him," she muttered, "and sue him for dereliction of duty."

  I felt somewhat sorry for Herb. Being Harriet's husband would be hard on so many levels.

  After the Gold Digger had ushered her prospectors down the stairs and out of the salon, I locked the door behind her and gestured to Gia, who was perched on Donatello's lap in her makeup station chair. "Come on, cuz. We need to talk."

  She sighed and slid to the floor, and Donatello rose to his feet.

  I pointed to the chair. "Sit."

  He sat.

  I stormed into the break room and remained standing.

  Gia sashayed in. "All I was doing was executing the Operation Goldfinger—"

  "Where are the flowers George delivered?" I whispered.

  She stepped back, as though she'd run into Sybil. "Uh, I pitched them."

  I pulled the lid from the garbage can.

  "No, outside. They had little bugs."

  I peered into the salon. Donatello was at the makeup station checking out his bicep. "You need to go and get them."

  "I'm not diving into the Dead Sea." She used our nickname for the dumpster we shared with Filly Filipuzzi, our fishmonger neighbor. "It smells like freshly shampooed fish guts."