Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) by Traci Andrighetti, Elizabeth Ashby Page B

Jersey Italian for heartburn."
    Gia frowned. "I think I ate some spoiled gabigol ."
    "You ate garbage?" Amy closed her menu. "Well, that explains why you have heartburn."
    "What she means is that she ate some capicola , an Italian deli meat."
    Amy scratched her head. "I'm not sure I can keep my ears open either, Cass."
    "Oh, dear Lord," I mumbled.
    Gia stood up and lifted her eye patch. "Who's that hottie with Zac Taylor?"
    "Where?" Amy shot from her seat like a cannon.
    I slid from the booth and hid behind the anchor, peering around one side. Zac and a friend were seated at the bar and surrounded by bottled blondes—in dire need of root jobs, I might add. "Well, he certainly doesn't look injured."
    "What?" Gia asked.
    "Nothing," I snapped. I was in no mood to tell her about Clyde Willard and the boat-repair accident at the Pirate's Hook Marine Services, especially since Zac was clearly in fine form and doing what he did best—hitting on women. "I'm going to the ladies' room. I'll be right back."
    Of course, I didn't need the bathroom. What I needed was a break. I headed toward the restrooms but then slipped out a door marked Beer Garden for a breath of fresh air.
    As I stepped outside into the night, a ship's horn blared in the distance. Perhaps because of the gloom, the deck was empty. I took a seat at the first table to my right, which was directly behind a massive pine tree that had been preserved in the middle of the deck. Then I leaned my head against the red brick wall of the building, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.
    "It was that Conti girl," a male voice whispered from the darkness. "She's been asking questions."
    I bolted upright. The voice came from straight ahead, but I couldn't see who it was because of the tree.
    "You don't say," a female said.
    I froze. I knew that voice. It belonged to Bertha Braun. But who was the man?
    "For the record, you've been duly warned," he said in a low voice.
    "Just why are you warning me?"
    He sighed. "It's the right thing to do."
    "And we know that you always do the right thing," she sneered.
    The ship horn blasted again, and the pair fell silent.
    I seized the moment to tiptoe to the tree. I held my breath and peeked around the wide trunk. The man was Dr. Windom!
    A crowd of people came onto the deck, and I slunk behind them to the back door. As soon as I stepped inside, I came face to face with PTA mom and meddler extraordinaire, Mallory Winchester.
    She crossed her arms. "I saw you spying on that couple just now. I can't say I'm surprised to learn that you're a voyeur."
    "Likewise," I said as I pushed past her—okay, shoved—and hurried to the table.
    "Guess who showed up?" Amy asked, elbowing an already uncomfortable-looking Lucy.
    "I'm so glad you came," I said. "But—"
    "I tried to order her a drink so that we could all make a toast," Gia interrupted, "but she doesn't want one."
    Lucy smoothed the skirt of her green goddess-style dress and attempted a smile. "I'm just here to support the salon."
    "I appreciate that," I said. "But something's come up, and we need to leave."
    "We just got here," Amy whined.
    "It's important. Trust me."
    Gia looked me in the eye and nodded. "Let's toast to the salon and then split."
    "If we're going to toast to anything," I began, "it should be to Margaret's memory."
    Gia raised her glass. " Salud !"
    I looked at her open-mouthed. " Health ? That's how you toast her?"
    Duncan Pickles appeared from behind the anchor wearing a Cove Chronicles press pass and holding a highball glass. "To properly toast Margaret Appleby, you should have ordered a round of blue sharks."
    Amy's eyes narrowed. "Why would we order those?"
    "Because, as it turns out, Margaret Appleby was worth a small fortune," he replied. "Three million dollars, to be precise."
    This was news to me. From all appearances, Margaret had lived a modest life. She wore inexpensive clothes, took public transportation to the salon, and always asked me for the senior-citizen