Killer Eyeshadow and a Cold Espresso (A Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery) Read online

  "As far as he's concerned, the incident proved that delinquency is encoded in his DNA, so he pleaded with Detective Ohlsen to lock him up before he sprays again. When he refused, Ben took the trolley to the police station and tried to turn himself in to another officer. Now our board of directors wants him to take some time to find himself."

  "Gia and I will be taking time to find ourselves if we don't stop Harriet soon. Have you uncovered anything on her ancestors?"

  "Sonny Torlone seemed more pressing."

  She had a point. The McCurmudgeon could ruin my life, but the Mafia could take it. "Did you find out whether he's associated with a mob clan?"

  "He's not a gangster. He's a goomba."

  Wait until I tell Gia. "Could you define that?"

  A paper rustled, and Amy cleared her throat. "An Italian-American male from the East Coast who's not in the Mafia but who has some mafiosi acquaintances. Also, his godfather is a godfather, he has an everyday tracksuit and a going-out tracksuit, and he thinks getting a slice is a romantic dinner."

  "Tell me that's not from a sociology book."

  "It's from A Goomba's Guide to Life, by Steven Schirripa, the actor who played Bobby Bacala on The Sopranos."

  Solid research, in other words. "If Sonny's not a gangster, how did he make his money?"

  "Hanging around Italian-American social clubs and gambling. He was a cardsharp who specialized in blackjack."

  "Any ties to organized crime in London?"

  "A goomba is faithful to the East Coast, Cass." Amy sounded almost offended. "Also, Sonny was an orphan, so he didn't have any relatives. My guess is that he was a friend or acquaintance of your uncle's who wanted to own a casino."

  If Sonny wasn't a mobster, then the Mafia wasn't after Gia and me.

  "I've got to run. An eighth-grade class came in, and one of them draws dirty doodles." She closed the call to take on the dirty doodler, and I stared out the windshield at the dastardly detective.

  Lester Marshall was headed toward Gold Rush History Tours.

  I couldn't imagine why he'd meet with Harriet unless she wanted to convince him to let her press charges against Ben and me. The drive to find out propelled me from the car.

  The detective turned right and disappeared, and I hurried up the pier and hooked a left toward Carolyn's Coffee and Creamery. The end of the pier was circular, so I walked behind the buildings along the water until I got close to the ticket booth. I crouched behind some shrubbery at a nearby park bench. The leaves were thick, but I could see Detective Marshall at the counter, and Harriet was inside.

  The detective lowered his head to speak into the window. "Now that Jesse has passed, we've dropped the charges you filed against him."

  I held my breath. What had Jesse done to Harriet?

  "I appreciate your efforts, Lester." Even when she was being gracious, her voice sounded like a sneer.

  "We take threats very seriously at the Danger Cove PD."

  "You do, but I can't say the same for Bud Ohlsen." She grunted and adjusted her bowler. "No matter, though, because I can handle Ben and Cassidi."

  "Don't do anything you'll regret."

  She raised her hands, the picture of innocence. "Why would I regret devoting more tour time to them? My clients lap up their histories, so it's a smart business move."

  "Can't argue with that."

  You can, Detective, and you should to keep the peace.

  Harriet tapped her pudgy chin. "But now that Jesse's gone, there's nothing to stop me from including Ingall Hardware on my tour."

  I'd wondered how the store had escaped Harriet's gold wrath, especially since it was across the street from the library. Apparently, the credit went to Jesse.

  "And the more I look into that guy, Lester, the more I realize what a criminal he is."

  The detective tipped his head. "He did kill a man."

  "Oh, I'm not talking about Jesse. I meant Rhys Ingall."

  I jerked and crunched some leaves.

  "What's that?" Harriet peered from side to side, and the white flag on her bowler moved with her.

  Detective Marshall approached the shrub, his arms tensed in gun-grabbing position, and I made like the stone bench.

  Little feet padded across mine, and I bit my coat belt to stop a scream.

  "It was a squirrel." He tightened his necktie and sauntered back to the counter. "What can you tell me about Rhys?"

  Harriet put on her gossip face—greedy eyes and a pinched smirk. "He's already blown through his inheritance, and he's too sophisticated to work. So I'll bet he came to ask Elise to give him a handout, not to attend that vow renewal ceremony."

  "Their father left the company to her, isn't that right?"

  "Because Rhys is such a loafer. But Elise won't give him a penny, and I'm sure he knows that. I can't prove it, but I'd say he's been running schemes back in London."

  The detective pulled out a notepad. "Can you be more specific?"

  "He associates with rough types who deal fenced merchandise to black market collectors. And being the snob that he is, he's perfect to do the dealing—and maybe even the stealing."

  "What kind of merch are we talking?"

  She smiled like the Mona Lisa. "Fine art, especially paintings."

  I didn't need Harriet to explain who the rough types were, because my instinct told me they were members of the British firms. But for once I knew something she didn't—Rhys wasn't going to ask Elise for money. He would steal it in the form of a living room landscape. What I didn't know as I stole away from the shrub was whether Rhys had poisoned Jesse over the painting and whether he would seek restitution from George for whatever his parents, the Fontaines, had done.

  * * *

  Rainwater engulfed the sidewalk in front of The Clip and Sip and threatened to overtake the yard. The storm had liquidated any chance at walk-in clients, i.e., tourists and the news-averse who didn't know about the Gold Rush History Tours or our link to Jesse Rothman's death. On the plus side, Harriet wouldn't be able to fill the top of her double-decker bus.

  I flipped the window sign to Open and turned to prepare my station.

  The floral arrangement George had delivered was still on the reception desk. Instead of serving as inspiration for Gia's Fierce Flowers smoky lip line, the flowers were a fierce reminder that we were in dire trouble and that I had to talk to Alex about George—without mentioning his tête-à-tête with Katrina at the Smugglers' Tavern.

  I climbed the two flights of stairs to the tower room, where Alex and her right-hand man, Big Ron, took measurements for the cabinets.

  Alex lowered her clipboard when I entered. "Ron was just telling me that Vinnie gave him a tour of the house not long before he died, and he says this room was definitely his bedroom."

  I leaned against the doorframe and looked at Big Ron. "How did you know my uncle?"

  "Vinnie used to cut my hair." All six-foot-eight of him rose from a crouched position, and he gave an off-kilter grin. "He was kind of a legend."

  I wasn't surprised he felt that way. According to Alex, Big Ron had been a football star when they were in high school together, but his prowess on the field didn't extend to women. And my uncle was nothing if not a Latin lover. "I can't imagine why the killer would take the time to switch the furniture, especially with a room on another floor. You'd think they would be in hurry to leave the scene."

  Ron wiped his nose with the back of his wrist. "It wouldn't have been hard to do."

  "Not for you." I gestured to his physique. "You're a big guy."

  "No. I mean, he didn't have much furniture, and sliding a mattress across a floor and down some stairs is easy."

  "But what purpose did it serve to make the police think he'd died in his fake bedroom downstairs instead of in his real one?"

  Alex tapped her pencil on the clipboard. "What if it was because of the cameo brooch?"

  "You mean, because it was a clue to his identity?"

  "Or hers. A woman's stocking was involve
d, right?"

  "Wrapped around his neck." I'd uttered the words slowly, thinking of Katrina. Was that why she'd stared at the cameo? Because she was the one who'd lost it?

  "The brooch was between the floor and the wall. So maybe she dropped it and couldn't find it."

  "But you saw it. Why wouldn't she?"

  "I only saw it because the gold was glinting in the sunlight, remember? If the killer strangled him at night, she could've missed it, especially if she was frantic or in an altered emotional state."

  I moved to a stepladder and took a seat. My body was weak, but Katrina's wasn't. She was muscular enough to move my uncle's furniture by herself. "Did your gram ever remember where she'd seen the cameo?"

  "Not yet."

  "I wonder if it would jog her memory to know that Katrina Schwarz kept staring at it at the Rothmans'."

  Alex's mouth opened and stayed that way for a second. "You think it's hers?"

  "In all fairness, if the killer is female, then any woman who dated my uncle is a suspect."

  "Vinnie and Katrina dated?"

  I nodded, but I was thinking of George with Katrina.

  "Go, Vincent." Ron clenched his fist and did a "score" motion. "Mind if I take a look at the cameo?"

  "Gia had it last. Let me call her." I pulled my phone from the pocket of my corduroys and tapped her number.

  "Yo," she answered. "I'm driving, so make this quick."

  "Where'd you put the cameo brooch? Big Ron wants to see it."

  "It's in my jewelry box. I'm pulling up the drive now with Cinnamon Sugar Bakery doughnuts for all, so I'll run up and get it."

  "We'll be in the tower." I hung up. "She'll bring it in a few."

  Alex and Big Ron resumed their measuring, the perfect time to ask some questions. "Alex, how are you and George handling the aftermath of Saturday?"

  "I haven't seen him since then."

  Big Ron let his measuring tape release with a snap. "I told her she ought to look into him, like she did that dead guy in the bathtub at his house."

  He was referring to a murder at Marlton House that had occurred while he and Alex were renovating the place a few years before.

  Alex gave him a whack with her clipboard. "You always think something fishy is going on. It's that family of watermen you come from."

  "All I know is that pretty boy came out of the investigation smelling like one of them roses he's selling. But if you ask me, he stunk back then, and he still stinks now."

  She didn't say a word, probably because she couldn't since she knew George's parents were criminals.

  "And the way the dude dresses is suspect too. It's like Edward G. Robinson in those old-timey mob flicks."

  The Mafia kept rearing its ugly horse head.

  "It's like William Powell as Nick Charles." Alex snatched the tape measure. "And fancy pants don't make him a crook."

  Gia rushed in, huffing from the stairs.

  I eyed her oversized white Gucci sweatshirt and tennis shoes. "Speaking of fancy pants, are you looking for yours?"

  Her eyes were as big as the interlocking Gs on her chest. "Someone was in our house, Cass."

  I swallowed my smirk, and it hit my gut with a thud.

  "My jewelry box is in my room, but the cameo is gone."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Detective Marshall perched his hands on his hips, revealing the gun holstered inside his suit jacket. "You're accusing Katrina Schwarz of stealing your cameo…because she looked at it?"

  I sunk deeper into The Clip and Sip's reception couch. When he put it that way, I sounded hysterical, and not in the humorous sense. "I didn't accuse her, specifically."

  "But you told me, a man of the law, that she could be a suspect."

  Gia flipped her hair in protest and took a seat beside me. "She also mentioned Rhys Ingall, Marshall."

  The detective shifted his hard stare to me. "Because he was out rowing."

  My hopes of getting him to see our side sunk like the sailboat Zac had raised. "Well, it was suspicious that he wore sunglasses in the fog."

  "Know what I think is suspicious?"

  I did, but I had to let him tell me.

  "You two concocting this cockamamie cameo story to point the finger at the other suspects in Jesse's death."

  I struggled to stay civil. "Please hear me out, Detective."

  "I don't have time for nonsense, Miss Conti."

  Gia slapped her pant-less thighs. "And we do?"

  I silenced her with a look, as did the detective. "Alex Jordan found the cameo in the room where my uncle was murdered. And right after Gia wore it to the Rothman mansion, it was stolen. So the cameo could belong to the killer—my uncle's and Jesse's."

  "From what I know about your uncle, that cameo could belong to half the women in Washington State. But speaking of your buddy Alex, where'd she run off to? I'm going to need her to corroborate this tale."

  "She and Ron went to the hardware store to get new locks for our house."

  He sneered. "When you girls put on a show, you go all out."

  Anger shot through my chest like a bullet from his gun. "This isn't a show, Detective. Those rough types Rhys deals with in London could belong to the British firms. And they deal in stolen art, which could also include jewelry."

  His brow arched like a black cat poised to pounce.

  Because I'd outed myself for eavesdropping on him and Harriet.

  "You scared that squirrel from the shrub." His voice was half Clint Eastwood, half Lurch.

  I hugged a couch cushion and stared out the window. The storm had ceased, but it was about to thunder in the salon.

  "I'm assuming you realize the gravity of this situation, Miss Conti? Spying on the investigating detective in the Rothman case makes you and your cousin look guilty of the poisoning."

  "I know you've been dying to arrest us since we moved here, Marshall, but this isn't your opportunity."

  "Pardon me, Miss Di Mitri, but I might beg to differ."

  If Lester hadn't been standing there, I would've whacked Gia with the cushion. Her mouth wasn't making this conversation any easier.

  The salon door opened, and Bree Milford from Ocean View Bed & Breakfast breezed in wearing jeans and a white blouse that emphasized her green eyes and red hair.

  "Sorry I'm late, but I've had a mother of a morning." She frowned at Detective Marshall. "Whatever you're here for, I hope you're done. I need this hair appointment more than you can know."

  "He needs one too." Gia mouthed graying and balding at Bree.

  The skin went taut over the detective's skull. "I'll be back, and when I show up you'd both better hope I'm not holding a warrant."

  He moved to leave and knocked the floral arrangement from the reception desk. He caught it and stared at the flowers before returning them to their place and shouldering his way out the door.

  "I take it that was about the Jesse Rothman murder?" Bree asked as I led her to my hair station.

  "He thinks we had something to do with it."

  Gia checked her lip gloss in her makeup station mirror. "If a murder is salon related, we're his favorite go-to suspects."

  "That man would suspect a newborn of murder." Bree climbed into my chair. "Thankfully, Bud Ohlsen keeps an eye on him. Otherwise, half the business owners in town would be in prison."

  Gia and I certainly would have been. "What can I get you? Espresso? Tea?"

  "Ten thirty in the morning is too late for caffeine. I'll have Prosecco with a side of limoncello."

  "I'll get the drinks, Cass, because I plan to join her." Gia went to the break room.

  I put a cape around Bree and leaned the chair back to wash her hair.

  She closed her eyes. "If it makes you feel any better, Detective Marshall's been hounding Rhys Ingall too."

  "How do you know?"

  "He's come to the B&B every day since the murder."

  I turned on the water and almost sprayed her. "Rhys is staying with you?"

  Her eyes p
opped open. "Is it that hard to believe? If it wasn't for that guy who died, we'd have a perfect rating on TripAdvisor."

  That could certainly lead to a bad review. "I'm not questioning his choice of the B&B. It's just strange that he's not staying with his sister at the mansion, especially since she lost her husband."

  Bree reclosed her eyes. "Those two don't like each other. They had a huge fight on the phone last night. At one point Rhys yelled so loud I could hear him in the lobby. Do you know what he said?"

  I wet her hair and waited for her to tell me.

  "He told her to stop the grieving widow act. Can you imagine?"

  That was a surprise. His support of his sister hadn't been sincere, but her grief had seemed genuine. "It's only been three days."

  "Right? Rhys Ingall gives new meaning to the words insufferable and snob. When he learned that we don't serve caviar and clotted cream for breakfast, he threw such a tantrum that I had to skip yoga to go and get some." She gritted her teeth. "And don't get me started on his flowers."

  "He has flowers?"

  "I put red roses in his room, and he demanded that I remove them and order red tulips instead. And they had to come from Some Enchanted Florist, probably because George used to live in Europe."

  I reached for the shampoo, and my hand was shaking. "When was this?"

  "On Sunday."

  The day after the murder. "Did George deliver them? Or was it his intern, Ruby?"

  "It was George, and I'm sure he regretted it because Rhys cornered him in his room for half an hour." She waved her hand. "I'll bet he was examining the flowers and finding all kinds of problems with them."

  I worked shampoo into her hair. They hadn't discussed the tulips—it was the painting. Because it had something to do with the murder.

  "I'm telling you, clients like Rhys make me want to ditch the B&B and move back to LA."

  Sometimes I wanted to leave Danger Cove too—not because of any clients, but because residents and visitors dropped dead at a rate that rivaled Cabot Cove's.

  "Yesterday I needed a break from the guy, so I said I had a doctor's appointment. But I went with Cristal to Lily's Lingerie so she could pick up something lacy and racy for a date. They're having their first-ever sale on back inventory, FYI."