Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) (11 page)

Amy blinked. "About the pig-dog?"

Gia smirked. "About the police."

"Oh, that." Amy smiled. "They brought Bertha Braun down to the station a little while ago."

"Which could mean that you're no longer a suspect," I added.

Lucy looked down and pulled her shoulder bag to her chest. "There's something you should know."

My stomach fell. The last time she uttered that phrase, I found out about her felony. "Would you like to talk in private?"

"I'm sure it'll be in the news soon," she replied, "so you all might as well know."

At that point my stomach went into a full-on free fall.

Lucy slid onto the couch next to Gia. "Ten years ago, my little brother shattered a bone in his ankle, and Dr. Windom operated on it. It was supposed to be a routine procedure, but something went wrong, and my brother has walked with a limp ever since."

I didn't like the turn this story had taken. "What does that have to do with the investigation?"

"My parents sued Dr. Windom for malpractice, and they lost." A single tear rolled down her cheek. "I was only sixteen at the time, and I was super protective of my baby brother." She bowed her head and picked at her chipped nail polish. "So, I went to Dr. Windom's office and told him that one way or another he would pay for what he'd done."

My stomach bottomed out, and it didn't exactly rebound when I saw the concern in Gia's eyes. This was not a good development, but I had to try to reassure Lucy. "Oh, don't worry about that," I said, faking a reassuring tone. "You were just a kid."

"Yeah," Gia said with an exaggerated wave of her hand. "It was such a long time ago too."

"And, lucky for you," Amy began, "Dr. Windom isn't around to tell the police about it."

Before Amy could say another word, I raised a can of Frizz Taming Spray, and she took cover behind the desk.

"No," Lucy admitted, wiping her face with her hand. "But Bertha Braun is around—and like you said, she's at the police station as we speak." She paused. "Even worse…she was in the examining room with Dr. Windom when I threatened him."

*   *   *

"Remind me never to eat oysters with Amy again," Gia said, staring into the bathroom mirror as she peeled off a false eyelash. "She gets…frisky."

"Well, if you stand any closer," I said, retrieving a jar of salt scrub from the antique cabinet above the pedestal sink, "I'm going to think
you're
getting frisky."

"I'm sorry, but for a brothel bathroom, this is, like, stupid small." She pulled an "Armani" sticker from her cheek. "And if the one in Vinnie's room was reserved for Madame LaSalle, then where did all those girls bathe?"

I applied a layer of the salt mixture onto my face. "They probably used the sinks in their bedrooms."

Gia began removing her eye makeup with a cotton pad. "Then why have this claw-foot tub and the butt bath here?"

"It's called a bidet," I said, working the scrub into my skin. "And why are you asking me? Do I look like a gold rush era prostitute or something?"

"Not with that girl-next-door look you're always rocking." She picked up a clean swab and started on her face. "What does 'bidet' mean, anyway?"

"When I got a quote from Finials and Facades to renovate Uncle Vinnie's bathroom, Alex told me that it was French for 'pony.' Apparently, they called them that because you straddle them like you would when you ride one."

"Well, this pony wasn't the only thing those girls were straddling," she said, tossing a wad of dirty cotton into the trash.

I leaned over the sink and splashed water onto my face and neck. "Can we please change the subject?"

"What?" she asked, throwing her hands into the air. "I was just trying to get your mind off the murders."

"And I appreciate that." I gave my skin a final rinse. "But I can't help it. I'm worried sick about Lucy, and I'm scared for us and the salon."

"Now that you've brought it up, I think we should talk about Lucy."

I straightened and grabbed a hand towel. "Don't tell me that you still think she's involved in this nightmare."

Gia moved in front of the sink and pulled a tube of hydrating mask from the cabinet. "I don't know what I think anymore. I mean, even you have to admit that she's not the sweet, innocent girl that she seems. First we find out about the felony, then the threat against Dr. Windom."

"I'll admit that Lucy is full of surprises," I said, dabbing at my skin with the towel, "but she's not a killer."

Gia looked at me through the reflection in the mirror. "I don't want to think that she is. But she was at the Smugglers' Tavern the night Dr. Windom was killed, and we don't know what she did after we left."

"Look, I saw Bertha with Dr. Windom on the deck, and she was the one who was feuding with him and Margaret, not Lucy. Also, don't forget about Clyde and his connection to Bertha."

"You're probably right." She opened the tube and squirted a generous amount of the blue mask onto her hand.

The flesh practically crawled off my body. "You're seriously going to stand here and use that blue crap right in front of me?"

"It's Cool Blue Calming Mask," she protested. "Am I supposed to throw away everything I own in this color?"

I narrowed my eyes. "How about just the things that turn your skin blue?"

Gia dropped the mask into the trash and washed her hand.

"Anyway," I continued, "I was thinking about it over dinner, and I've decided to give Vinnie's black book to the police."

"How come?" she asked, spreading moisturizer on her face.

"Because I can't shake the feeling that Vinnie's death is related to what's happening now. And if that's the case, then that book could contain something that proves Lucy's innocence."

"Let me make a copy of it first. We might need it for some reason."

"Okay, but you need to do it before I have the officer come to oversee the plumbing work on Monday. I want to be sure to give it to whoever he or she is so that I can steer clear of the police station and Detective Marshall." I turned to leave.

"Wait." She picked up her phone from the vanity. "Before you go to bed, I want you to listen to this."

I looked over her shoulder as she pulled up her music app. "What is it?"

"'Splish Splash.'" She tapped play. "By Bobby Darin."

I paid close attention to the lyrics, hoping to hear something that I could connect to the crimes.

"Can you believe people used to like this music?" She wrinkled her forehead. "It sounds so 1950s."

"Well, duh," I said, giving her a playful shove. "But it's fun."

She smiled and then cast a suspicious glance at her phone. "The crazy thing is that this guy's real name was Walden Robert Cassotto. How do you suppose he went from a fine Italian-American monogram like that to Bobby Darin?"

"Well, Bobby is from Robert, and Darin—" I stopped in midsentence as I finally made the connection.

"What's wrong? You look like you swallowed some of your salt scrub."

I put my hand on my forehead. "The
bd
in Uncle Vinnie's book! It stands for
Bobby Darin
."

"That doesn't make sense." Gia sat on the side of the bathtub. "The men listed in the book had numbers in the hundreds beside their names. They couldn't be ordering hundreds of Bobby Darin haircuts."

"Right!
Bobby Darin
, or
bd
, is code for something else."

"I see what you mean. Those two calls we got weren't about haircuts—they wanted to place bets."

I shook my head. "Uncle Vinnie wasn't running a betting ring. He was selling something illegal."

"Like what? Drugs?"

"No clue," I replied. "But I'll lay you ten-to-one odds that it had something to do with the color blue."

"Now
these
are some Seattle Dutch Babies," Zac said, pointing at the fluffy, fruit-topped flapjacks that the server had just delivered.

I cut into mine and took a bite. "Wow," I said, covering my mouth with my hand. "It's like a hybrid between a pancake and a popover."

"Normally they're served with lemon wedges, but since we're at The Apple Tree, they put apples on top." Zac took a big bite of his Baby and looked at his watch.

I glanced at his face as I reached for the syrup. "Do you need to be somewhere soon?"

"Not until eleven. I picked up some extra hours at work today."

In what was undoubtedly a local faux pas, I drowned my Baby in the thick, maple goodness. "Saving to buy back the Pirate's Hook Marine Services?"

"Always," he replied with a curt nod. "But working overtime isn't going to get me my father's company back."

I smiled. "You could always look for the treasure that Bart Coffyn stole from Sir Francis Drake."

He laughed. "I was thinking more along the lines of selling my design for a new sailboat. But if I thought I could find that treasure, I'd be looking for it."

"What does it consist of?" I asked before inhaling a huge hunk of my Baby.

"No one knows." He cradled his steaming cup of Seattle's Best in his hands. "The only thing historians agree on is that Drake and his crew had plundered a Spanish warship and a Spanish galleon called
Nuestra Señora de la Concepción
before sailing the
Golden Hind
up to Washington. The booty is something of a mystery, but there is some evidence that it included silver pesos, gold bullion, pieces of eight, assorted jewels, and pearls. So, Coffyn could've taken any of those things."

"Did your dad have any ideas about what Coffyn took?" I asked, reaching for my apple juice.

He swallowed a sip of coffee. "He was convinced that he'd stolen some of the pesos, because they were the most plentiful and would have been the easiest to carry, and probably some of the more valuable jewels."

"Have you thought about picking up where your father left off? I mean, if you have records of where he searched, you're already ahead of the game."

"If I had proof that the treasure was really out there, I would. And I wouldn't do it for the money, either. I'd do it for my dad."

My eyes welled with tears, and I looked down at what was left of my Baby, which was already surprisingly little. It was hard not to be moved by Zac's devotion to his father, and it was even harder not to be impressed by it. I was starting to think that I'd been a little hasty in writing him off as the superficial type.

"Hey," Zac said in a soft voice. He reached out and tilted my chin upward so that he could look into my eyes.

Not only did I not resist, but I met his gaze straight on. And I let myself get completely lost in the two pools of smoldering blue, so much so that I was ready to rethink my stance on the color—once I started thinking again, that is. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. The bleached-blonde brigade. Grace, Helen, and Jackie had entered the restaurant, and they were making a beeline for our table.

I stood up and almost knocked over my chair, wanting to be anywhere but at the table with Zac and his legions of women.

He looked up at me with eyes that had lost their smolder and now showed only surprise.

"Excuse me for a moment," I said in a terse tone. "I need to visit the powder room."

"Yoo-hoo, Zac," a high-pitched female voice cried, and a cacophony of giggles followed.

Yoo-hoo? Who says that?
I wondered as I headed toward the opposite end of the restaurant, resisting the urge to look back.

I took a left down a narrow hallway and entered the ladies' room. It was a single, so I turned the lock and pressed my back against the door. Then I asked myself a hard question—why had I cut and run on Zac? Of course, it didn't matter one bit to me that his fan club had come to fawn all over him. But didn't the peroxide squad have anything better to do than follow him all over town?

Uh-oh
. I knew that last question was a sure sign that I wasn't exactly Switzerland where Zac was concerned, and that wasn't good. After that stunt I'd pulled at the altar, I'd sworn off relationships for a good, long time.

I stole a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My face told me what my brain didn't want to acknowledge—that I was upset about the interruption, and it wasn't because I needed to talk to Zac about Clyde. I'd been enjoying hanging out with him and talking to him about his life and his plans. I mean, let's be honest—Gia and Amy weren't what you'd call engaging conversationalists. So why did those fake fair-haired floozies have to ruin it for me?

Nope, not Swiss at all
.

This time I turned and stared into the mirror. The truth was as plain as the nose on my face. I was jealous of Grace, Helen, and Jackie—practically green with envy. But I reminded myself that I was here on business, not pleasure. So, I had to suck it up, go back out there, and get the information I needed, bottled blondes or no.

I washed and dried my hands and then checked my attitude in the mirror. And on my way out of the bathroom, I told myself that there was a silver lining to this situation—I was just green, not blue.

As I made my way back to the table, I was relieved to see that the gaggle of girls was gone. But, to my disappointment, Zac's demeanor had changed. He was staring out the window and drumming his fingers on the table, and I noticed that his napkin was in his plate of half-eaten food. Clearly, after meeting up with his groupies, he was ready to move on to bigger and blonder things.

I pulled out my chair and decided to get straight to the point. "I know you have things to do, so I'll make this quick."

Zac started. "Okay?"

"I need you to tell me what you know about Clyde Willard," I said. But instead of looking him in the eyes, I focused on his forehead. It was safer.

His brow creased. "I thought you said you needed to talk to me about The Clip and Sip."

I hated to lie, but I couldn't just blurt out that I suspected Clyde of murdering Margaret. "This
is
about the salon. I'm thinking of hiring him to do some work around the place. And since Gia and I are alone in that house, I need to be sure that he's a good person."

"Right." He toyed with the handle of his coffee cup. "I don't know much about him on a personal level. Clyde doesn't talk a whole lot. But I'm sure he's single, and he said that he lives in a garage apartment somewhere on the edge of town."

I picked up my fork and stabbed my Baby. Zac may have lost his appetite, but I was resolved not to lose mine. "What type of work does he do for the Pirate's Hook Marine Services?"

"Boat repair, odd jobs," he said with a shrug. "Anything we need, basically."

"Is he a hard worker? And honest?" I shoved a supersized bite into my mouth.

He leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. "I heard through the rumor mill that someone in town had accused him of stealing a lawn mower. But I've never known him to do anything dishonest."

I looked at my plate and tried to think of other questions that I should ask. This sleuthing thing was so much harder in real life than it seemed in books, especially when the guy you were interrogating could really fill out a pair of pants.

"As for his work ethic," Zac continued, "he's the best boat repairman I've ever worked with, aside from my dad. That's saying a lot, considering that my father had an engineering degree from one of the best universities in the world, and Clyde picked up his skills working offshore in Gulfport."

I dropped my fork like it had scalded my hand. "Did you say 'Gulfport'—as in, Mississippi?"

"Yeah, according to his résumé, he worked for the oil industry there until a decade or so ago."

So Clyde had lived in one of the cities where the syringe had been sold at around the time the Presley-Smith Memorial Hospital would have purchased it. Was this it? Was Clyde the murderer?

Zac leaned across the table. "Cassidi, are you all right?"

As soon as he asked me the question, a cold, clammy sensation came over me—not for myself, but for Gia. She was still sleeping when I'd left, and she was alone in that huge house.

"Could you please take me home?" I asked, leaping to my feet. "Like, as fast as you can get me there."

*   *   *

Zac pulled his Jeep in front of The Clip and Sip and switched off the engine.

I took one look at the place and knew that something was wrong. And it wasn't even because the front door was wide open. It was the way that the
Closed
sign was hanging by one end.

"Oh no," I breathed. I threw open the door and jumped from the car.

"Cassidi, wait," Zac called as I ran toward the porch. "Don't go inside."

Ignoring his command, I took the steps two at a time and stopped short in the doorway.

The salon had been ransacked. Most of the products I'd marked down the day before lay scattered and broken on the floor, and the reception desk drawers had been pulled out and emptied. The hair-cutting stations had met a similar fate.

Tears stung the backs of my eyes, and when I felt Zac's strong arms wrap around me, I succumbed to his embrace. And for a moment, all was forgotten.

"Why don't you wait outside?" he whispered, stroking my hair. "I'll call the police."

As much as I didn't want to, I pulled away. "Gia could be upstairs. I have to make sure that she's all right."

"I'll go." He pulled his phone from his pocket and called 9-1-1. "You go out to the porch and wait for the police."

"I'm going with you," I replied.

Zac held up a hand to silence me. "Yes, I'd like to report a break-in at The Clip and Sip Hair Salon."

I headed for the stairs.

"Cassidi!" he yelled.

I ran up the spiral staircase and bolted down the hall. Glancing into my room, I saw that my dresser drawers and closet had all been emptied. I turned toward Gia's room and grasped the door handle.

It wouldn't open.

"The police are on their way," Zac said from behind me.

I looked at him with panic. "Gia's room is locked."

"Move out of the way."

I stepped back, and he rammed the door open with his shoulder.

Gia was on the bed with her arms and legs splayed. She had a mask over her eyes, and her mouth was hanging open.

If I didn't know better, I would have said that she was practicing the yoga posture, shavasana, or death pose.

"Call an ambulance," Zac said, tossing me his phone as he ran to Gia's side.

I caught the phone between my trembling hands. "No, that's just how she—"

"Back off, bro!" Gia barked as she flew from the bed in her Wonder Woman pajamas, ripping the gold and red-starred headband from her eyes on the way. She swung a baseball bat that she'd produced out of nowhere. "Or I'm gonna go all Jersey on you."

"—sleeps," I said, sinking into the beanbag chair.

Gia flipped her red, white, and blue cape and then her black hair. "You might be a hottie, Zac Taylor, but that doesn't give you the right to enter into a lady's room uninvited."

I had to cock a brow at the "lady" part.

Zac held his hands high, as though facing an entire SWAT unit. "I was just making sure that you were okay."

"Lower your club, Lynda Carter," I said with a surly stare. "The salon and my bedroom were broken into while you were getting your superhero sleep. Zac is trying to help us."

The bat clattered to the floor. "OMG. It had to be Clyde. You
know
he saw you—"

I made a slicing motion across my neck at the same time Zac tilted his head.

"Would one of you mind telling me what's going on here?" he asked, crossing his arms against his chest.

Gia looked at me, and I looked at Zac.

I couldn't tell him that we'd seen Clyde searching Margaret's house. It's not that I thought that he would report us, but I knew that he would think badly of me, and I realized that I didn't want him to. "I think Clyde might have had something to do with Margaret Appleby's murder and with Dr. Windom's as well."

Zac's arms fell to his sides. "That's an awfully serious accusation. Do you have any proof?"

Even before he'd uttered the word, I realized why someone had torn through my salon and my room. I rolled from the beanbag and sprung to my feet. When I arrived at my nightstand, I saw the top drawer lying empty on the floor.

I sunk onto the side of the bed and put my face into my hands. "It's all gone," I said. "The syringe wrapper, the Bible. And I have no proof that any of it ever existed."

Gia slipped her arm around my shoulders. "You don't need it, Cass. I saw those things, and Amy did too. The police will believe that."

I turned my head to look at her. "Yes, but they won't be able to prove it in court."