Chapter 1
"Never has the name Painted Lady been more appropriate for a building," Harriet McCudgeon boomed into a microphone at the top of the double-decker bus. On her short, squat frame, the black bowler hat, red scarf, and black puffy coat made her look more like a sinister snowman than a tour business owner. "Because during the Klondike Gold Rush, the Victorian mansion that houses The Clip and Sip beauty salon was home to a bunch of whores."
My stomach threatened to leap from my throat and crawl under the bus as I watched the tourists' reactions through the glass door of my salon. Several dropped their jaws, while others snapped pictures.
A smug smile cut into Harriet's pudgy cheeks as she prepared to deliver the most salacious line of her spiel. "Indeed, the women of The Clip and Sip—I mean, the old LaSalle House brothel—mined many a miner and felled a lot of lumberjacks' timber."
The Clip and Sip slip, which I wasn't sure was accidental, made me want to run down the porch steps and shove the mic into her mouth. But I thought of the contract I'd signed and stayed put, as did my horrified stomach.
"Then, on New Year's Day in 1955, the wives of Danger Cove followed through with a resolution." She battened down her bowler, reenacting their determination, and gathered her breath for a preacher-style pronouncement. "They stormed the brothel with torches and burned the den of sin."
A few elderly women on the upper deck broke into applause.
"I can't believe they clap for that trash." My stepcousin, Gia Di Mitri, shouted behind me. "Can we close the salon early, Cassidi? Or move to a new town?"
"It's not even noon." I kept my eyes on the tourists. "A client could come in."
"Who? These Gold Rush History Tours have scared away pretty much everyone. Not even our free drinks can dull the pain of the McCurmudgeon and her gawking 'prospectors.'"
"Sh." I waved to silence her. "She's at the part about Uncle Vinnie restoring the building."
"Why would you listen to that again, much less for the third time today?"
I turned and withheld a wince. It was fifty degrees outside, and Gia sported a rose-adorned Bardot top with red satin short shorts and matching strappy sandals. If the tourists got a load of her getup, they'd think the salon was still a whorehouse. "Aren't you cold?"
"I'm hot-blooded, remember?"
It's hard to forget with that outfit. "So, there have been three tours today?"
"Oh, that's right." She tucked her long, black hair behind her ears to display the Dolce & Gabbana rose earrings she'd gotten secondhand. "You missed the first one when you went to breakfast with Zac."
If only I were back at Cinnamon Sugar Bakery with my boyfriend. I collapsed onto a corner of the reception desk. "When I agreed to this tour thing, I didn't think Danger Cove had that many tourists. But she's tripled her customers since she opened in January."
"Thanks to you giving her troops the right to ogle the bordello artifacts upstairs where we live. Did I tell you that I found a lady going through my lingerie drawer?"
She hadn't. And I hadn't told her that I'd found a group taking shots of her flavored vodkas at the Bottoms Upbar in our living room, because she would've torched Harriet's ticket booth. "We've been over this. Harriet had information we needed to save the salon, so I had to agree to her terms."
"Ironically, those terms are now sinking the salon. And at the rate her business is growing, we could have a tour tromping through every hour. Then it's RIP for The Clip and Sip." She sunk onto the blue velvet Rococo couch beside our product display. "We have to get out of that contract."
"You're from New Jersey, so you know as well as I do that Harriet's extortion skills rival the mob's. We have to ride it out."
She tapped a red stiletto nail against her cheek. "Or run her out."
"How?"
"We'll talk about it later. George Fontaine is here to see me."
George strode up the walkway wearing a double-breasted herringbone coat and tailored suit and holding a large floral arrangement from his shop, Some Enchanted Florist. At thirty-two, he was only five years older than Gia and me, but his elegant style and European upbringing made him seem older. And vaguely mysterious.
"Flowers from Donatello?" I asked.
"Nope. From me to me."
There was a story in there that I could wait to hear. I stood and opened the door, triggering the salon bell.
"Sorry I'm late, Gia. I got held up in Craggy Hill Estates, taking an order for a vow renewal." George placed the arrangement on a coffee table in front of her. "Exotic flowers for an exotic beauty."
Her cheeks turned as red as her roses. "You're a flatterer—and I love it."
"Don't tell that to your officer boyfriend." He rubbed his hands.
"And I won't tell Alex," I said, referring playfully to his girlfriend. "Can I offer you something to warm you up?"
"You know I never miss a chance to sample your homemade liqueurs, but Charlotte Vickers is expecting me at the church. The Reverend's niece is getting married this weekend, and Charlotte has ordered enough flowers to fill the gardens of Versailles."
Gia and I stayed silent. We'd been through hell and high water with the Reverend and his wife, and we wanted to stay on dry earth.
"Besides"—his eyes darted to the bus—"it sounds like the gold rush army is about to stage a siege."
My cousin shot me a side-eye. "We were just talking about that."
"Well, for your sakes, I hope Harriet doesn't supply any prospecting tools, like picks." He flashed a dashing smile and slipped out the door.
I frowned at the bus. The tourists would be coming inside any minute for the second part of the tour. I wasn't ready for the stress, so I turned my attention to the flowers. "That burst of color is just what the salon needs on the first day of spring."
"Actually, I'm using it as inspiration for my Mad Makeup line."
"For your Fierce Flowers–themed smoky eye palettes?"
"Close." She leaned forward on the couch, her brown eyes sparkling. "For my Fierce Flowers–themed smoky lip kits."
"There's a smoky lip?"
"Your girl-next-doorness is showing, and that peach sweater doesn't help."
I smirk-smiled at the jab. My blonde hair, blue eyes, and modest clothing clashed with Gia's dark features, and she was forever trying to get me to cross over to the smoldering side.
"A smoky lip is a matte lipstick topped with sheer black gloss."
That certainly sounded fierce. And slightly morbid.
She pointed to a frond with a radish-shaped berry. "Imagine this red with a black overlay."
"That could be nice." If you're a vampire. "What kind of berry is this?"
"What am I? A Girl Scout?"
I looked at her false eyelashes, plumped lips, and acrylic nails and decided to dodge the question. "How are you going to name the kits if you don't know the flowers?"
"I'll make something up. None of the flowers in my line are real."
Naturally.
The bell sounded, and Harriet held open the door. She'd inserted a white flag into the hatband of her bowler, presumably to lead the tourists. "Go on in, prospectors," she said as tourists filed inside. "Let's pan for gold."
Gia rolled her eyes. "Speaking of pans, can someone lend me theirs? I need to bash myself in the head."
Harriet's white flag said surrender, but her green eyes said fight. "First up, the sinks in the prostitutes' bedrooms. Then, the late gigolo's lair."
My hand gripped the desk to keep the floor under my feet. My Uncle Vinnie had been no saint, but I couldn't believe she'd disrespected his memory in my presence—or that she was showing his room and discussing his murder. "Harriet, we need to talk."
She looked annoyed and directed her clients' attention to the back of the salon. "The stairs are through the break room to the right. I'll meet you at the old picture of Hope, Faith, and Charity. You can't miss their, uh, professional pose."
The elderly women who'd applauded the salon-torching walked past and sized up my cousin and me. Gia turned and twerked, and they gasped and ran.
"Do not twerk at my tourists," Harriet huffed as the door closed behind her. "Or I'll see you in court."
I stepped in front of my cousin. "I know we have a contract, but this isn't working out."
"What do you mean? This chicken ranch turned salon-home is a gold mine."
I regretted her analogy—and not having the funds to remove the brothel relics. "Our clients aren't as excited about this arrangement as yours are. So I need you to limit the tour times to before or after our business hours."
Harriet glanced around. "I don't see any clients."
"Precisely. You've driven them away."
"Your crabby cousin did that. She could drive out a rat infestation."
Gia stuck out her chest, revealing the thorns on her Bardot-top roses. "Then how come you're still here, wagging your whiskers?"
Harriet's hand went to her upper lip, and her eyes narrowed.
I seized on their standoff to stop a rat fight. "From now on, my uncle's room is off limits. He bought and restored this building in 1995, so he obviously had no part in the gold rush."
"Which makes your tours fool's gold," Gia jeered.
Harriet's double chin tripled. "My tours are the best on the West Coast. And according to our agreement, I'm here for nine more months with no restrictions."
She was right about the contract, but I refused to allow anyone to profit from my uncle's death. "Fine. Come when you want. But tomorrow you'll find my uncle's door padlocked."
"Murder is money, Goldilocks. Especially unsolved murders that involve sex. So if you try to keep me from that room, I'll sue for breach."
The grab for cash had turned Harriet hateful, complete with themed nursery rhyme name-calling. "What's the point? You said yourself that you only have nine months left on our contract, and then you won't be allowed inside."
Harriet harrumphed. "Judging from your empty salon, you're going to go bankrupt. And judging from my packed bus, I'll be able to buy this dump when you do."
She spun on her sensible heels and stalked through the break room to join the group. And with every stomp she took, my anger level climbed.
"She's like a gold digger," Gia breathed. "But of businesses."
I crossed my arms. "No. She's a dirty rat who's infested our Painted Lady. And we're going to get rid of her, even if we have to call an exterminator."
* * *
Gia tapped a bottle of metallic gold nail polish on the round table in our salon break room and kitchen. "I hereby convene the first meeting of Operation Goldfinger."
Amy Spannagel's quasi-unibrow furrowed. "What does a James Bond film have to do with getting out of the contract?"
Gia sighed and touched her index fingers together. "One, the 'gold' part of the name is code for the tours. Two, Goldfinger was a notorious villain who planned to obliterate the world's economy, i.e., Harriet on a larger scale. And three, Goldfinger covered one of his victims in gold body paint, which is a totally fab look."
I glanced at the clock above the sink. Two minutes after six p.m., one minute later than the last time I'd checked.
Amy brushed mousy brown hair from her face. "But why would Harriet have gold body paint? I've never even seen her wear makeup."
Gia gave her a hard stare. "Either you need to quit your library job or your PhD program. All those books are dulling your brain."
"Yes, because literacy and education are cognitive killers," I quipped.
My cousin unfurled her arms. "I give you Exhibit Amy."
"Play nice, okay?" I reached for my pink lemonade. "She's here to help us."
"I'm here to help myself too." Amy's hazel eyes grew large behind her lenses. "Since Harriet started the tours, library visitors are down sixty percent. And if that trend continues, I'll be out of work."
I hadn't thought about the effect of the tours on other businesses. "I didn't know the library existed during the gold rush."
"It was a one-room shack back then. But based on the information Harriet provides during the tour, the focus isn't the library. It's Ben."
"As in Ben Bardsley, your boss?" I couldn't have been more shocked. "He's a little abrupt—"
"And seriously uptight," Gia interrupted.
"—but he's a highly respected citizen of this community."
Amy adjusted her beige cardigan. "If Harriet's research is correct, then his ancestor Boone Bardsley wasn't. He was a major bootlegger. And at one point during the gold rush, Danger Cove was sending so much timber up north that Boone couldn't get enough wood for his stills. So he helped himself to the books in the library and used them as kindling."
I almost coughed up a lemonade sip. "Ben's ancestor was a bootlegger book burner?"
"I'll drink to that." Gia raised her vodka, which was rose-flavored to go with her outfit, and took a swallow. "Now, about that rat exterminator you mentioned. I know a guy."
"Oh!" Amy touched my cousin's arm. "Is it Tommy Two Fingers?"
I blinked, astonished. "You're not actually talking about a mob hit?"
Gia gestured to her body. "Does this say a mobster to you?"
I looked again at her false eyelashes, plumped lips, and acrylic nails and decided to address the question. "A mobster's moll, maybe."
She tipped her head. "I'll take that as a compliment. Those women know how to take care of themselves."
If you count Botox, fillers, and silicone as self-care.
Amy pushed up her glasses. "Tommy Two Fingers is a self-described critter ridder. Before George Fontaine bought Marlton House from Alex Jordan, he rid the attic of an entire colony of bats. He caught some of them in a cage and strapped it to the top of his station wagon. When he drove away, the rest of the colony followed."
I glanced back at the clock. Two more minutes had passed, but it seemed like an hour. "You both know that Harriet's not actual vermin, right?"
Gia flicked her hand. "That's debatable, which brings me back to the guy. I meant someone on the right side of the law, like Donatello."
"That could get him fired," Amy exclaimed. "As a police officer, your boyfriend can't get involved in your contract dispute."
"Au contraire, mon Amy." Gia's accent wasn't French, but pure children's taunt. "Right after we moved in, Detective Ohlsen told Cassidi that the police wanted Vinnie's room to stay intact until his murder was solved."
I stared at my cousin, incredulous that a constructive idea had come from her Operation Goldfinger meeting. "That's true. And if Donatello tells Harriet that the room is still a crime scene, she'll have to stay away."
"Away from his room." Amy's eyes took on a lascivious gleam. "But not the sexy brothel stuff."
"Precisely." Gia moved to sit on her hot-panted haunches. "And seeing George this morning gave me an idea. I called Finials and Facades Renovation and Restoration Services and asked Alex Jordan to give us an estimate for renovations."
"What?" I was so upset I rose from the table. "I can't afford that. You have to cancel."
"Then how do you plan to get rid of Harriet?"
"I was thinking we could take down the picture, the old wooden Bottoms Up placard above the bar, and the gilt mirror on the ceiling and just leave the holes in the sheetrock for a while."
"What about the bedroom sinks?" Amy asked. "You can't take those out without sealing the pipes."
"I'll padlock all the rooms, not just Uncle Vinnie's."
Gia finished off her vodka. "That whack job will bring metal cutters. I guarantee it."
"It's our only option. The salon is losing money, and I just used my tax return to pay the tuition balance for my final semester of college. There's no way I can afford renovations."
"You can't afford not to afford them. Either Harriet goes, or The Clip and Sip does." She deposited her shot glass on the table. "I've got five thousand dollars put aside that we can use as a down payment."
I leaned against the kitchen counter, stunned by the offer. For one thing, Gia wasn't a blood relative, so Uncle Vinnie had left me his entire inheritance. And for another, she hadn't exactly struck me as a saver. "Why would you invest in the salon?"
She shrugged. "So I can get something out of it."
With Gia, that went without saying. "I take it you don't just mean income?"
"I want the tower room for Mad Makeup." She held up a hand to stop me from speaking. "Dream with me for a moment. I put a makeup chair in the center of the room and have circular floor cabinets installed to display my products and store my inventory. And you use my current station for manicures."
I bit my thumbnail. The third-floor tower was wasted space, and a manicurist, not to mention free staff manicures, would be amazing. But Gia's dream was a pipedream given our financial situation. "The tower would need a heating upgrade on top of your renovations. We're looking at twenty grand minimum, and I don't have the other fifteen."
Amy snapped her fingers. "You could take out a small business loan and use Vinnie's old Ferrari as collateral."
"Or"—I returned to the table—"I could sell the Ferrari and use the money for the renovation and a practical car."
Gia doubled over and made a spitting-hacking sound.
"Are you okay?" Amy patted her back.
"Relax," I said. "She's just choking on the word practical."
Gia straightened and hiked up her top. "Let's not do anything puhrack—I mean, drastic—just yet. There's always Vinnie's eight hundred grand."
I gave her a look. "If I had a dollar for every time you mentioned his missing money, we would already have eight hundred grand."
"We know he stashed it in the house the week before he died, so it's here somewhere. And if we do the renovations, it could turn up." She reached for my hand. "Good things are going to happen—I can sense it. And you know I'm kind of psychic."
Psychotic was more like it.
The salon bell rang.
"Darn it, I forgot to lock up." I stood and walked toward the waiting room. And when I saw the town gossip, Donna Bocca, with a copy of the newspaper, I had even more reason to doubt my cousin's pseudo-psychic prophecy.
Gia strutted into the room. "What do you want, Woman Mouth?"
Donna's wide nostrils flared at the translation of her Italian name. "I thought you two would want to see the evening edition of the Cove Chronicles."
Amy entered and pushed up her glasses. "There isn't an evening edition."
"Sometimes a special edition comes out." Donna's mustache curled. "Like when a big news story breaks."
I sunk into the chair at my station. I'd already gathered that the story would somehow involve the salon.
"Give me that rag." Gia snatched the paper.
Donna sniffed and shoved her hands into her brown woolly coat. "I'll spare you the trouble of having to read. The charges against Jesse Rothman have been dropped on a technicality. He's getting out of jail."
That was a big story, one that made my stomach quease.
Because Jesse Rothman had killed a man. And thanks to reporter Duncan Pickles, it was common knowledge in the Cove that Jesse and my Uncle Vinnie had done at least one illegal business deal.
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