Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) by Traci Andrighetti, Elizabeth Ashby Page A
Authors: Traci Andrighetti, Elizabeth Ashby
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shivered—this time from disgust.
"Cass," Gia whisper-shouted.
I poked my face out of the bush. "What?"
She made an obscene Italian gesture that involved the crook of her elbow. "Come here, will ya?"
I came out from behind the bush and followed her around the side of the house.
Gia interlaced her gloved fingers and bent over. "Gimme your foot so I can hoist you up to the window."
"Why am I going in first?" I whisper-protested. "This was your idea."
"Because it's your salon and your skin we're trying to save."
I remembered Bertha's threat to make a skin quilt out of Margaret and stepped into Gia's hands.
After considerable grumbling, grunting, and groaning, she lifted me just enough so that I could open the window. Then I gripped the ledge and used my rusty monkey-bar muscles to pull my torso inside.
As I paused to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, Gia grabbed my legs and gave my backside a shove. I shot forward over a sink and landed hands and face first on a linoleum floor. I lay on my belly, fantasizing about pushing her off a cliff. "You do that again," I warned in a low voice, "and it's your skin you'll be needing to save."
"I thought you were stuck," she whisper-called from outside.
And I swear I heard her suppress a giggle.
I checked my wrists for fractures, lumbered to my feet, and pulled my phone from my back pocket. I tapped the flashlight icon and discovered that I was in the kitchen. After closing the window, I located the back door and then hesitated before unlocking it. What I really wanted was to leave Gia out back, but I decided that I needed her help even if she was a stunad (New Jersey Italian for "moron").
I opened the door, and she pranced in like everything was okay between us. I shined my light in her eyes, interrogation style. Because she'd been waiting for me in the car when we left the house, it was the first time I'd gotten a good look at her. And I wasn't prepared for what I saw. " What are you wearing ?"
She looked down at her Catwoman suit. "It's my spying outfit."
There were a lot of questions I could ask, but I started with, "What's up with the cat ears and tail?"
"If someone sees me, they'll think I'm a cat."
I snorted. "A really, really big one."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you calling me fat? Because I could totally be a panther."
I shined my light on the lower half of her body. "With opera gloves, a shiny gold belt, and black stiletto boots?"
"If I get caught, I want to look put together, all right?" Gia turned on her phone light and flashed it around the room. "Whoa! Look at that."
I started. "What is it?"
"Margaret had a blueberry theme in her kitchen. Go figure."
"Never mind that, Julie Newmar," I quipped, although I did think the blueberry thing was more than a little ironic. "I'll search the living room, and you search the bedroom, okay?"
"Purrfect," she replied as she pussyfooted through the adjoining living room and up the flight of stairs in the entryway.
Meanwhile, I surveyed the living room. It looked a lot like my German grandma's sitting room in Fredericksburg, except that there was no cuckoo clock. In its place, a grandfather clock towered over an extra-wide beige armchair and a matching ottoman. On one side of the chair was a basket full of knitting needles and yarn, and on the other a stack of newspapers and magazines. The item that caught my eye, however, was a built-in bookshelf that covered an entire wall. Books were the perfect hiding place for letters and other documents.
I don't know what I was expecting Margaret to read, maybe cozy mysteries or the usual classics like Little Women and Gone with the Wind . But as I scanned the titles on her shelf, I was more convinced than ever that she wasn't at all who she had seemed. The Anarchist Cookbook , Lolita , American Psycho , The Satanic Verses , Slaughterhouse-Five —it read like a catalogue of the world's most controversial novels.
"Just goes to show you that you really can't judge a book by
"Cass," Gia whisper-shouted.
I poked my face out of the bush. "What?"
She made an obscene Italian gesture that involved the crook of her elbow. "Come here, will ya?"
I came out from behind the bush and followed her around the side of the house.
Gia interlaced her gloved fingers and bent over. "Gimme your foot so I can hoist you up to the window."
"Why am I going in first?" I whisper-protested. "This was your idea."
"Because it's your salon and your skin we're trying to save."
I remembered Bertha's threat to make a skin quilt out of Margaret and stepped into Gia's hands.
After considerable grumbling, grunting, and groaning, she lifted me just enough so that I could open the window. Then I gripped the ledge and used my rusty monkey-bar muscles to pull my torso inside.
As I paused to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, Gia grabbed my legs and gave my backside a shove. I shot forward over a sink and landed hands and face first on a linoleum floor. I lay on my belly, fantasizing about pushing her off a cliff. "You do that again," I warned in a low voice, "and it's your skin you'll be needing to save."
"I thought you were stuck," she whisper-called from outside.
And I swear I heard her suppress a giggle.
I checked my wrists for fractures, lumbered to my feet, and pulled my phone from my back pocket. I tapped the flashlight icon and discovered that I was in the kitchen. After closing the window, I located the back door and then hesitated before unlocking it. What I really wanted was to leave Gia out back, but I decided that I needed her help even if she was a stunad (New Jersey Italian for "moron").
I opened the door, and she pranced in like everything was okay between us. I shined my light in her eyes, interrogation style. Because she'd been waiting for me in the car when we left the house, it was the first time I'd gotten a good look at her. And I wasn't prepared for what I saw. " What are you wearing ?"
She looked down at her Catwoman suit. "It's my spying outfit."
There were a lot of questions I could ask, but I started with, "What's up with the cat ears and tail?"
"If someone sees me, they'll think I'm a cat."
I snorted. "A really, really big one."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you calling me fat? Because I could totally be a panther."
I shined my light on the lower half of her body. "With opera gloves, a shiny gold belt, and black stiletto boots?"
"If I get caught, I want to look put together, all right?" Gia turned on her phone light and flashed it around the room. "Whoa! Look at that."
I started. "What is it?"
"Margaret had a blueberry theme in her kitchen. Go figure."
"Never mind that, Julie Newmar," I quipped, although I did think the blueberry thing was more than a little ironic. "I'll search the living room, and you search the bedroom, okay?"
"Purrfect," she replied as she pussyfooted through the adjoining living room and up the flight of stairs in the entryway.
Meanwhile, I surveyed the living room. It looked a lot like my German grandma's sitting room in Fredericksburg, except that there was no cuckoo clock. In its place, a grandfather clock towered over an extra-wide beige armchair and a matching ottoman. On one side of the chair was a basket full of knitting needles and yarn, and on the other a stack of newspapers and magazines. The item that caught my eye, however, was a built-in bookshelf that covered an entire wall. Books were the perfect hiding place for letters and other documents.
I don't know what I was expecting Margaret to read, maybe cozy mysteries or the usual classics like Little Women and Gone with the Wind . But as I scanned the titles on her shelf, I was more convinced than ever that she wasn't at all who she had seemed. The Anarchist Cookbook , Lolita , American Psycho , The Satanic Verses , Slaughterhouse-Five —it read like a catalogue of the world's most controversial novels.
"Just goes to show you that you really can't judge a book by
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