Killer Eyeshadow and a Cold Espresso (A Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery) Page 7

  Gia cleared her throat for questioning. "Angelina, can you hear me?"

  "Yeh." Her voice was wily with a wise-guy edge.

  "Did you talk to Gloria, Sal's sister?"

  "Yeh."

  "Did she have the goods on Vinnie and the casino?"

  "Yeh."

  My grip on the steering wheel tightened. If "yeh" was the extent of Angelina's involvement, we could have done without her.

  Carla coughed, no doubt because a hit of air was ravaging her immune system. "Vinnie told Sal that he was going in on a casino deal with Jesse Rothman and that dead mobster Sonny Torlone, but he never got the chance."

  I leaned closer to the phone. "What happened?"

  "They cut him out of the deal."

  "Yeh. It had to do with a dame."

  Angelina's first full sentence, and she uses the word dame?

  "You know my brothuh." Carla sounded stricken with Catholic shame. "Always sticking his salami in other people's cellars."

  I was glad I didn't have any salami at the house. Or a cellar.

  "But I gotta tell you girls, I was sure this deal was how Vinnie got the money to buy the painted lady."

  My uncle didn't need gambling to fundraise. The eight hundred grand he'd stashed somewhere in our house was proof that sex provided a better payout. "Do you know who the woman is, Aunt Carla?"

  "We don't even know if she was with Jesse or Sonny."

  Gia scratched her cheek. "You got a contact to look into that?"

  "Yeh. Rosie at the butcher."

  Gia nodded, satisfied, like a godfather informed of a hit. "No one beats Rosie when it comes to identifying a dame."

  "She's a tough biscotto." Carla's tone conferred respect. "Those six toes give her a mental advantage ovuh the rest of us."

  There could be science to support that association. "Angelina, did Sal's sister mention a silent partner in the casino deal?"

  "Nah."

  I waited for her to elaborate, but I shouldn't have.

  Carla's cough had degenerated into a hack. "I don't like this silent partner business, C. Without a name, it's hard to know who to keep an eye out for."

  I'd had the same hair-raising thought. "It could be someone in Sonny Torlone's circle. We were wondering if his clan ordered Jesse's death."

  "I'll check with Flavia at the funeral parlor. G, she's the one with the extra-wide nostril who came to your sweet sixteen."

  "I remember."

  I'd remember that too.

  Gia picked at her pinky nail. "Could you also find out if Sonny's associated with Little Nicky Scarfo's clan?"

  A cute moniker, but clearly Mafia. "Who's he?"

  "The late boss of the Philly-South Jersey mob who poured all the cement for the Atlantic City casinos."

  The word cement was stifling. We still didn't know who Jesse was talking to when he said "the two of them have got to be dealt with," so there was a possibility that Gia and I had a hit on our heads.

  "I'll look into the relationship, G. And since you mentioned cement, I've got a piece of advice for yous two."

  I pulled into the parking lot of Hard Bodies gym, my neck knotting from the tension. "We're listening, Aunt Carla."

  "Watch your feet."

  * * *

  Gia leaned against the Hard Bodies juice bar and surveyed the giant room. "I visited a lot of gyms during my summers at the Jersey Shore, but this one has the best equipment bar none, which is why I joined."

  I followed her gaze—she wasn't looking at the weights, and she definitely hadn't joined the gym to work out.

  "Your super-awesome Mounds of Muscle smoothie." A blonde barista in a tiny top and shorts handed Gia a cup.

  How my cousin could drink-eat in a place that smelled like air-freshened sweat, I didn't know. And if the odor wasn't bad enough, the beat of the music threatened to drive the knots from my neck to my brain. "Can we look for one of your bodybuilder buds now?"

  "I'm game." She Groucho-Marxed her brow and lip-locked her straw.

  We set off through the maze of equipment—in the proper sense of the term. One-half of the gym was pure power lifter with free weights and benches on a concrete floor, while the other was more powder puff with cushioned machines, balance balls, and pink mats. I scanned the power side for a familiar face, but bodybuilders in their natural environment all looked alike to me.

  "There's Quadzilla." Gia pointed to a spray-tanned guy holding a bar stacked with plates at his chest.

  Based on his size, the nickname wasn't off base. He was only five-foot-seven, but his quadriceps made his thighs as big as Gia and me. As we approached, he kicked back a leg and lifted the bar over his head.

  "Hey, Quad." Gia addressed his pecs.

  His smile was relaxed despite the two-hundred-plus pounds he pressed, and he eyed her plaid tights. "Swedish workout gear. Cool."

  I could almost see confusing Swedish with Scottish, but there was no mistaking Gia's four-inch Mary Janes for tennis shoes.

  "Oh, I'm not here to work out. My cousin Cassidi and I were wondering if you knew one of the ex-managers, Katrina Schwarz."

  "Whoa. You're the third and fourth people to ask about her today."

  One had to be Detective Marshall. "Can you describe the others?"

  "They were dudes."

  It wasn't a nice thing to think, but Quad struck me as a dumbbell. "Can you give us more to go on? Names? Clothes?"

  "One dressed like a cop. The other dressed old-fashioned."

  Gia sucked her straw. "Was one of them a cop?"

  "Yeah, the one who dressed like one."

  I needed to take over the questioning. "Was one of them named George or Rhys?"

  He gave a rapid-fire laugh. "That last one sounds like a peanut butter cup."

  I gave him a bodybuilder-competition scowl.

  Quad's orange face turned vermillion—from embarrassment, not from the weight hovering over his head. "One was Detective Maxwell, or something. The other dude didn't introduce himself."

  "What color was his hair?"

  "Slicked back."

  "Brown or gray?"

  "I only noticed the smooth style."

  "Would you say he was in his early thirties or fifties?"

  He shrugged under the plates. "Old dudes all look the same."

  I wasn't in a position to judge since I couldn't distinguish him from the other oversized Oompa Loompas in the gym. "Did anyone else see the guy?"

  "The Beast. I'm his squat spotter, and I was giving him pointers when the dude came in." He turned, barbell and all, to scan the gym. "That's him at the front desk."

  A well-muscled male with a crew cut the color of his fake tan stared at a computer screen.

  "Gia, you stay and talk to Quad." I shot her a look that said press him for information the same way he pressed the barbell, and I walked up to The Beast. He was entering data into an employee tracking software that I used at the salon.

  I waited, but he didn't acknowledge me. "Hey, The Beast. Quadzilla said you could give me some info about a man who came in earlier?"

  "As a manager in training, I'm not allowed to discuss our patrons."

  That meant employees were out too, unless…I could get a peek at the database. There was a notes area where managers could leave comments about employees' job performance and how they interacted with others. But my only chance at that was to wait him out.

  Since Gia had signed me in as her guest, I went to a leg machine and did curls—after removing the pin from the weights.

  The blonde barista jogged to the reception desk, but nothing jiggled. "We're out of protein powder." Her perky tone held a note of panic. "What's going to happen?"

  The Beast's eyelids—the only part of his body not spray-tanned—went pale. "Be chill, and let's hustle to the supply closet."

  The duo rushed to the back with muscles tensed to maximize toning, and I ditched the machine and slipped behind the computer.

  Luckily, The Beast hadn't logged out of the pr
ogram. I typed Katrina Schwarz and pulled up her file. Date of hire, address, phone number. I scrolled to her employment history and inhaled so hard that I pumped up my chest.

  Terminated for stealing?

  That wasn't the story Katrina had told Mandi at the Smugglers' Tavern about Elise hiring her away from Hard Bodies. But did Elise know she was a thief? And if so, why had she hired her?

  "What are you doing?"

  I jumped so high that I could've hurdled an ab bench. The question was innocent enough, but the delivery was decidedly drill sergeant.

  Back on the ground, I turned and came eye level with the word bodies on a company muscle shirt. I looked up and told myself that the veins probably always bulged from the guy's neck—and his bald head. "Um, I'm a guest. Aren't I supposed to log in?"

  "On the sign-in sheet." He tapped a clipboard on the counter.

  I picked up a pen and scribbled my name.

  He scanned my outfit. "You're not dressed for working out."

  "First I want to check out the equipment." My cheeks turned warm. Thanks to Gia, the phrase sounded like an innuendo.

  "I'm aesthetic."

  The warmth turned slow burn. Apparently, he was pretty pleased with his equipment.

  "Aesthetic God? That's my name?"

  "Right," I gushed. "How did I not guess that?"

  His lips went leer, and he stroked the tuft of hair beneath his lip. "You're cute, you know that? We should call you Aesthetic Godette."

  I forced a giggle, which was hard considering he didn't know that the correct term was goddess. "And you're so buff."

  He puffed up like the Michelin Man and looked at the clipboard. "Cassidi Conti. You related to Vinnie?"

  So many people had known my uncle that I wasn't surprised he'd made the association. "Yeah. Did he cut your…soul patch?"

  He winked. "I trim my own patch."

  Okay, that was an innuendo. "Then how did you know him?"

  "He used to come in to see an ex-manager, Katrina."

  I hid my astonishment. "Did she train him?"

  "You could say that." He leaned in so close that I could see the blood pulse in his veins. "They were hot and heavy for years, like you and me could be."

  Aesthetic might as well have conked me with a forty-five-pound plate, because my ears rang, and dame echoed in my head.

  Was Katrina the woman who cost my uncle the casino deal?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Katrina and Vinnie?" Zac gazed at the bay from our picnic table at Carolyn's Coffee and Creamery on the pier. In the foggy, overcast morning, the waves were the color of night. "I wouldn't have put those two together."

  I didn't know why not. My uncle used to put himself together with anyone who had a pulse and the right parts—well, any parts. "I wish I knew whether she was the reason he was cut out of the casino deal with Jesse and Sonny."

  "Why? What would it matter?"

  I tore off a hunk of my croissant. "It could mean that Jesse was seeing her and got jealous of Vinnie. And if Jesse and Katrina had a history, she might've had a motive to kill him."

  "Such as?"

  "Maybe they were still an item, and he dumped her and she got mad. Or, Katrina and Elise are close, so Jesse could've threatened to tell Elise about their relationship, and Katrina killed him to keep her job and her friend."

  "Or Elise murdered him for cheating on her."

  I chewed the pastry. Elise was a suspect, but she seemed too kooky to be a killer, and it wasn't only the way she talked to herself, but also that dragon robe and the aerial yoga. "I doubt it. She was excited about the vow renewal ceremony, but Jesse seemed so indifferent, which makes me suspect the affair even more."

  Zac swallowed a sip of coffee. "Don't forget that there were two others in the casino deal that Katrina could've been seeing, Sonny and the silent partner."

  A gust of wind blew the rest of my croissant to the pier, and a seagull swooped and scooped it up.

  "You scavenger." I scowled at the sky. Beneath a canopy of black clouds, seagulls circled like vultures.

  "Want me to get you another one?"

  I shook my head. "I need to go soon to open the salon. Gia and I actually have a couple of customers on the books, and Alex and Big Ron are coming to start the renovations."

  "Before you go." He paused and took my hands. "I don't want to tell you what to do, but I hope you're not going to look into Sonny or his associates. The Mafia isn't a group you mess with." His blue eyes turned as dark as the water. "They kill people."

  A wave slammed into the side of the pier, startling us both. Water washed across the wood. I lifted my feet to keep them dry, and spotted concrete weights on the picnic table legs.

  Cement shoes.

  I gulped in the salty sea air to suppress a shudder, and I shifted to sit on my legs. "So I've been told."

  "And?"

  "You have nothing to worry about." And he didn't, since Amy and Rosie at the butcher were the ones looking into Sonny Torlone. "Now what are you up to at work today? You never told me what happened with the sailboat."

  He pushed out his lips. "We raised it. The navigation system and the engine can't be repaired, but we can salvage the shell."

  His blasé attitude had me concerned. Zac was always so enthusiastic about his work. "Is something wrong?"

  "Me and one of the guys were in scuba gear to shackle the lift bags to the boat. When we inflated them, we found an empty chest where the boat had been."

  "An ice chest?"

  "No, it was a foot wide and about as deep, covered with barnacles and other debris. I scraped off the top, and it started disintegrating. But I found the initials B.C."

  A thrill went through me, like I'd discovered a stash of gold and jewels. "Bart Coffyn?"

  He folded his arms on the table and looked down. "We'd have to have it carbon dated to make sure it's at least from 1579 when he buried the treasure, but Clark agrees that it's probably his."

  I leapt from my seat. "Then the treasure must be in the silt somewhere around the dock."

  He looked up, his eyes still stormy. "We combed that whole area with the metal detector at Christmas."

  "So?" Excitement surged through my body. "The waves could've washed the chest there after that, maybe from the old smugglers' caves where you found the other pesos."

  "We searched again yesterday." He finished his coffee and crumpled the cup. "Whatever was inside the chest is gone."

  I returned to the bench. Without the money from the treasure, Zac wouldn't be able to buy back his father's business. I was devastated for him, and I feared what it would do to us. Owning the business wasn't only an attempt to lessen the tragedy of his past, it also represented his present—the thing that would've made him feel like a man who could take care of his family, as his dad had done. And if he lost the present, I didn't know what our future would hold.

  "You never needed the treasure, Zac. You're an engineer from MIT with a high-tech design for a yacht. You just have to find an investor. People do that every day."

  "Before Clark has to sell?" He took a shot at a grin and rose from the table. "It's almost eight. I'd better get to work." He kissed me on the cheek and walked across the pier toward Pirate's Hook Marine Services.

  I shifted my gaze south to the rock formation that Zac's father had named the marine supply store after. Pirate's Hook was also where I'd found a silver peso with a crude map to the treasure that had set Zac on the hunt. And I hated to think that I'd had a role in setting him on a quest that ended in failure.

  The screech of a seagull drew my attention to the water near the pier.

  A small boat emerged from the fog and reached the beach. A person climbed out in a trench coat and…put on a pair of sunglasses?

  I pulled my phone from the pocket of my pea coat and aimed the camera at the figure. I swiped the screen to enlarge the frame, and a shock of gray hair and an ascot came into focus.

  Rhys Ingall.

  I snapped several pictur
es as he traipsed up the beach and disappeared onto a street.

  As I finished my triple espresso, I tried to make sense of the scene. The chances that he was getting some rowing exercise in were slim in those shades, but I couldn't fathom what else he would be doing except…

  Feeding something to the fishes.

  * * *

  Thunder rumbled, adding to the air of foreboding.

  I climbed into the Ferrari and locked the doors. Had Rhys been disposing of evidence like the poison, or was it something else? Or someone else?

  Lightning cracked and backlit the clouds with an eerie yellow.

  My fingers trembled as I fastened the seat belt. I wanted to get home before the downpour—and before someone tried to dispose of me in the bay.

  I moved to put the key in the ignition and spotted Harriet McCudgeon strutting up the pier, presumably to the Gold Rush History Tours ticket booth. I was thankful I'd avoided a confrontation about the water hose. I was already on edge—I couldn't take any more tension.

  My phone rang, giving me a jolt. It was Amy. "Hey," I answered. "I was about to call you."

  "If it's about the Mafia research, I've got it."

  "Good, because I have another assignment—Rhys Ingall. I need anything you can dig up on his life in London."

  "Sure, but I won't be able to get to it right away. As of this morning, I'm doing my job and Ben's."

  Panic hit me like a wave. "He wasn't arrested, was he?"

  "No. Detective Ohlsen came in yesterday after we closed, and he said he'd convinced Harriet not to press charges or sue either of you."

  I knew I loved that man. "How'd he do it? She's as stubborn as, well, an old gold prospector."

  "He told her she should be grateful that all Ben did was spray her, because if it had been any of the other business owners she's been harassing, she would have ended up, at a minimum, over at the fairgrounds in a dunking booth."

  I'd be in that line with ball in hand, and Gia would cut to the front. "Then what's wrong with Ben? He should be relieved."