Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5)
Authors: Traci Andrighetti,Elizabeth Ashby
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DEADLY DYE AND A SOY CHAI
A DANGER COVE
HAIR SALON MYSTERY
by
TRACI ANDRIGHETTI
&
ELIZABETH ASHBY
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Copyright © 2015 by Traci Andrighetti
Cover design by Janet Holmes
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
To my mom, Carolyn Andrighetti, for being my biggest fan, my fiercest critic, and a pretty darn good proofreader
.
Acknowledgments
For as long as I'm writing books, I will begin every acknowledgements page by thanking Gemma Halliday. Not only did she hand me my career on a silver platter, so to speak, but she also asked me to write a series in the Danger Cove mysteries. To say that I am grateful to her is beyond inadequate.
When Gemma asked me to pick a type of business for my series, I immediately wanted to write about a hair salon. And I knew I could count on the best stylist and salon owner in Austin, Texas, to help me out—Debra Day at 4001 Duval Hair Salon. Thanks, Debra, for being my stylist, my friend, and now my consultant.
Two of my work buddies helped immensely with this book. When I was trying to come up with the plot, I wanted a unique murder weapon. So,
grazie
, Blaise Margherito for hissing the name of an awesome weapon at me—that one word inspired this entire novel. And
danke
, Andreas Hennen, for helping me with German language terms and food items for the character of Amy Spannagel.
As always, I need to thank Detective Ruben Vasquez from the Criminal Investigations Division of the Georgetown Police Department for suggesting and verifying proper police procedure. Although I have since had the good fortune to meet others in law enforcement at the Writers' Police Academy, Detective Vasquez is still my go-to source for all things police.
Of course, I would be remiss if I didn't thank my husband, Graham Kunze, for helping me to navigate the murky waters of the sailing world. I was practically drowning in a sea of bizarre and obscure sailing terminology until he rescued me. Speaking of family, I can't tell you how much I love and appreciate my super son, Dmitriy, for supporting me and for understanding why I have to go to bed so early every night.
"That statue's not wearing any panties!"
My body tensed at the outrage in Donna Bocca's voice. As the preeminent gossip of Danger Cove, not to mention a women's undergarment salesperson, she'd spread the news of this latest Conti family calamity all over town.
"And a child is watching," PTA member Mallory Winchester added through clenched teeth.
I stole a glance over my shoulder at the crowd gathering in the street. Besides Donna and Mallory, there was an elderly couple, an attractive thirty-something male with a camera, and Reverend Vickers's wife, Charlotte, with the members of her Bible study group. Even worse, a ten-year-old boy was speaking into a walkie-talkie with the intensity of a CIA agent on an intelligence-gathering mission.
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter after one on a Thursday in September. Why wasn't that kid in school?
I took a deep, calming breath of the crisp ocean air and then tried to convince myself that the situation wasn't really that bad. I mean, sure, there was a wooden statue of a gold rush era prostitute hovering, like a ghost of times past, from a rope in front of my home slash hair salon. And yes, she was skirtless and spread-eagle on a chair, displaying her intricately carved wares for all to see. But at least she had a shirt on.
"Beaver shot!" a young boy shouted.
I turned and saw packs of prepubescent males speeding up the sidewalk on bikes, alerted to the sex show, no doubt, by the CIA wannabe.
Okay, if little boys were ditching elementary school, then the situation
was
that bad.
I looked up on the roof. "Tucker," I began, trying to control the rising anxiety in my voice. "You need to get down and bring that statue with you.
Now
."
"Mellow out, Cassidi," he replied, giving me a half-lidded look. "I told you, the pulley's stuck."
Tucker Sloan was the owner of One Man's Trash, a junk shop on the outskirts of Danger Cove that dealt in antiques, used furniture, and eclectic decorative items, like my late Uncle Vincent Conti's—
ahem
—art collection. As Tucker's hippie-speak indicated, he was all about peace, love, and understanding. But right then, I wasn't about any of those things. When he'd bought the statue from me, he'd said that because of its "splayed style," it would be easier to move it out of a second-floor window than to try to take it down the spiral staircase. So much for that idea.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and whisper-shouted, "People are getting upset. Can't you unstick it?"
He shook his thick dreads. "Looks like old Sadie's not going to leave without a fight."
"Sadie?"
"Sexy Sadie's what your Uncle Vinnie used to call her. He nicknamed all of his women, real or otherwise." He grinned. "That cat was far out."
That was one way to describe him. "Could you please just try yanking the rope again?"
"Okay, but I don't think it'll do any good." Tucker braced himself with his legs and pulled until veins bulged in his neck and the fringe on his moccasins shook.
The pulley didn't budge, but Sadie did. She began to move back and forth like a swing. Each time she swung toward the street, the onlookers let out a collective gasp—and it wasn't because they were afraid that she was going to hit them.
"Seriously, Tucker?" I cried.
"I told you so, man," he replied.
I put my head in my hands—that is, until I heard one of the boys yell "Boobies!" followed by cheers from the rest of the under-twelve crowd.
I looked up and saw Tucker's temporary helper, Zac Taylor, pushing the ship's figurehead from my second-floor apartment out the double doors of the salon. It was also the likeness of a woman, but instead of baring her nether region, this one was baring her breasts. And Zac's face was buried right smack between them.
"That's a sight for sore eyes," a deep female voice said.
I turned and saw Amy Spannagel, the assistant librarian, dismounting her bike.
"You mean, an eyesore."
She pushed up her glasses. "I'm talking about Zac's ripped biceps. What are you talking about?"
I gave her a blank stare. For a PhD student, Amy could be kind of dense. But, as much as I hated to admit it, Zac's muscles were kind of distracting. Repairing boats at the Pirate's Hook Marine Services had done his body good. "I'm talking about my Uncle Vinnie's antique porn."
"It's not porn." She tucked a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear. "It's art."
"Psh," I said with a flick of my hand. "You're from Seattle."
She arched her quasi unibrow. "So?"
"So, it's a lot more open minded than where I'm from. Trust me. In Fredericksburg, Texas, this stuff is straight-up smut. And apparently," I began, glancing back at the scowling faces in the crowd as Zac pulled the bare-breasted wench down the steps of the porch and into the yard, "it's smut in Danger Cove too."
Amy inclined her head to one side and nodded, conceding my porn point.
"Zac," Tucker shouted, "Sadie's putting up a fight. Come and give her a tug from below."
"Sure thing," he replied. "Just let me put Pearl on the truck."
"Who's Pearl?" Amy asked.
"That figurehead," Tucker replied. "She was the apple of Vinnie's eye."
I frowned at Pearl's cupless corset. "She's a real peach, all right."
Zac pushed Pearl up a ramp and into the bed of Tucker's old pickup. Then he walked between Sadie's legs, jumped up, and grabbed onto her thighs.
I was less than thrilled about the suggestive scene, but I was more than happy that he was blocking the va-jayjay view.
"Now that's what you call eye candy," Amy breathed, ogling the backside of Zac's tight jeans.
"Hello!" I gave her a shove.
"What?" She lurched to the side and stumbled out of a penny loafer.
"I'm trying to clean up the image of The Clip and Sip and the Conti family name, and your gawking isn't helping."
Avoiding my gaze, Amy put her shoe on and pulled her socks high, as though suddenly ashamed of her naked knees.
"She's starting to drop," Zac announced as he let go of Sadie's massive thighs. But instead of lowering to the ground, she began to rock left and right.
The little boys began whistling and fist pumping like budding wannabe strip-club patrons.
"Sadie sure is kicking up a fuss," Tucker commented.
"She's kicking, all right," I yelled. "A burlesque version of the cancan."
No sooner had I spoken than a woman in the crowd let out a muffled cry.
Amy turned toward the street. "Looks like Charlotte Vickers just went down."
I threw my hands in the air. "That's it," I shouted. "Cut the rope."
"But Sadie's over a hundred and fifty years old," Tucker protested. "She might not survive the fall."
"Then you can take comfort in the fact that she's had a good, long life." I pointed at the offending item. "Now, you promised me that this would be a quick job, so you've got ten more minutes to get this junk off my property."
Tucker pulled a pocketknife from the front pouch of his Mexican Baja jacket and began cutting. "This is a real drag, man."
After a few seconds, the rope snapped, and Sadie hit the ground. But she didn't have the decency to fall on her face. She landed upright, lascivious grin and all.
Tucker hurried down the ladder and ran to Sadie's side. After he was sure that her parts were intact, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Groovy."
"Yeah, outtasight." I put my hands on my hips. "You dig?"
His face was expressionless. Then a light went on in his burned-out brain. "Grab a leg, Zac. Let's get Sadie on the truck."
Zac ran a hand through his thick, brown hair and flashed me a mischievous smile. "Did you want us to take Hope, Faith, and Charity too?"
My face turned as pink as my Blushing Berry lip gloss. He was referring to a painting-sized photograph from the late 1800s of three prostitutes on their backs with legs splayed, clothed only in socks and shoes.
"We'd be happy to take them off your hands," he added, winking a sexy, steel-blue eye.
"I'm sure you would," I intoned as he turned to help Tucker with Sadie.
"Hey," Amy said, punching my arm.
"Ow." I glared at her as I rubbed my bicep. "What did you do that for?"
"Because you promised me that picture."
"You can have it. But why would you want that hideous thing?"
"It's vintage erotica." She adjusted her beige cardigan. "And not everyone can have blonde hair and a petite figure like you. Some of us girls need a little help with the opposite sex."
I pretended to be absorbed in the loading of Sadie onto the truck. Amy and I had become friends a couple of months ago when I started studying for my online accounting class at the library. And if there was one thing I'd learned (it wasn't accounting), it was that she liked to talk about her nonexistent love life. As much as I wanted to be there for her, now wasn't the time. I had a staff meeting to plan and a quiz to study for. Besides, truth be told, talking about Amy's man troubles reminded me of mine, and that was something I'd rather forget.
"The girls are ready to go," Tucker said as Zac slammed the door of the truck bed shut. "Later, Cassidi."
Now that Sadie and Pearl were covered by a tarp, I turned to the sizable crowd. "Peep show's over, folks."
The townspeople began to disperse, and Tucker climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. Zac saluted and got into the truck.
"Wait," I said, approaching the passenger door. "How much do I owe you for helping Tucker move the, uh, things?"
He leaned out the window. "Nothing. I used to work for Tucker in high school, so I was happy to help." He paused. "Especially since it meant coming to your place."
Flustered by his comment, I pulled some cash from the pocket of my jeans. "I insist."
"Okay." He gave an opportunist smile. "Then how about dinner?"
I felt my face flush. "I…I'd rather pay you for your time." I shoved three twenties into his hand. "That should cover it."
He looked from the money to me. "For now."
I nodded and then did a double take when I processed what he'd said. But before I could respond, Tucker flashed the peace sign out the driver's window and sped away.
"Can you believe that Zac guy?" I asked as I stared after the truck.
Amy punched me in the arm—again. "He was hitting on you."
"
You're
hitting on me," I corrected. "What's up with you today?"
"Someone has to knock some sense into you." She put her hand on her hip. "Zac Taylor is one of the most sought-after guys in town. You owe it to those of us who'll never get a date with him to go for it."
I crossed my arms. "I told you. I'm not interested in dating right now."
She looked me straight in the eyes. "It's because of whatever happened between you and that guy back in Fredericksburg, isn't it?"
"That has nothing to do with it," I fibbed, wishing I'd never alluded to the unfortunate incident. "You know that between the hair salon and my class, I've got more on my plate than I can handle."
"That reminds me," Amy said as she reached into her messenger bag. "Here's that textbook you wanted."
"Thanks." I took the accounting tome, and the sheer weight of it served as a reminder of the burden of school. "If I don't make a C or better on that quiz in the morning, I'll have to drop the course."
"You can do it." Amy straddled her bike in her blue pencil skirt. "Are we still on for girls' night tomorrow?"
"Absolutely." I frowned at the textbook. "Pass or fail, I'm going to need to get my drink on. This has been a hard week, and the statue striptease just now didn't help."
She wrinkled her forehead. "Is everything okay?"
I shrugged. "Business has been especially bad. I can count the number of clients that Lucy, Gia, and I've had on two hands."
"Well, you've only been in town for a few months. The customers will come."
"Yeah." I stared at the pink-and-orange plaid pattern on my shirt. "I'm sure they will."
Amy looked at her watch. "My lunch hour's almost up. I'd better get back to the library."
"'K. See you tomorrow night." I watched Amy ride away and wondered whether the customers really would come. In the four months that I'd been in Danger Cove, I'd gotten a real education, and it had nothing to do with my degree. The people of the town were nice but wary of me and my salon. And now that I knew why, I couldn't say that I blamed them. As much as I'd wanted to escape small-town Texas, I might have stayed put if I'd known the truth about Uncle Vinnie and this building.
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I stared at the bank balance on my laptop screen. That couldn't be right, could it? The clock was showing the correct time, 2:30 p.m., so my computer was working properly. I blinked in case something was clouding my vision. Nope, still the same number. I tried closing my weak eye, but it was no use. Any way I looked at it, I had three months of money before my inheritance from Uncle Vinnie ran out. I sighed and rested my head on the back of the wooden chair.
