Read Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) for Free Online
Authors: Traci Andrighetti, Elizabeth Ashby
shook my head and remembered how excited Bertha had been about her date and Prudence her sailing adventure. They'd come in to The Clip and Sip for a pleasant experience, so I felt awful that they were now involved in this morbid mess. "Why do you have to question them if Margaret died after they left?"
"It's routine procedure to talk to everyone who saw the victim in the hours before death."
"Victim?" I put my hands on my hips. "Aren't you jumping the gun here, Detective? Margaret was eighty years old. Maybe she died of natural causes or a heart condition or something."
"Not a chance," he replied as he straightened his suit coat. "The EMTs said that she was unusually cyanotic—"
"What?" I interrupted (I owed him one). "You can't possibly think we have cyanide in the salon!"
His lips curled. "Cyanosis is when the skin turns blue because of poor circulation or a lack of oxygen in the blood."
"Oh." I collapsed into the swing. "In that case, I agree with the EMTs."
"Sure, sure." He drew his hand to his chin. "But here's the funny part," he said in a voice devoid of humor. "She's been dead for at least an hour, and yet she's still blue."
I thought of the dye but immediately dismissed the notion. "Well, of course. Now that she's dead, she definitely has circulation problems and a lack of oxygen in the blood."
He snorted. "Dead bodies don't turn blue, and they don't stay blue either. They turn pink." He stepped closer to the swing. "So, what I want to know is why Margaret is still as blue as the ocean down at the harbor."
My body stiffened as my mind drifted back to the dye. "I'm afraid I can't help you with that."
"That's okay. Because I know someone who can." He looked through the window at Lucy, who was sobbing in a salon chair.
A protective instinct surged through me, and I pounced like a mamma bear. "You can't possibly think that sweet girl would do anything to harm Margaret!"
He shrugged. "She was the last person to see her alive, and from what I understand, she'd just applied blue dye on the victim's hair."
"Exactly," I snapped. "She put it on her hair , not in her teacup or anything."
He cocked his head. "Now, that's an interesting remark." A smug smile spread across his lips as he jotted a note on his pad. "Anything else you'd like to add?"
My hand flew to my head, which was again starting to spin—not from an oncoming panic attack but from the absurdity of the situation. Did Detective Marshall really believe that Margaret had been murdered? Even worse, had I just incriminated Lucy in that poor woman's death?
Detective Marshall glanced toward the street, and I followed his gaze. One look told me everything I needed to know.
The Crime Scene Response Team had arrived.
* * *
As I contemplated the 3:02 a.m. reflected on my bedroom ceiling, I regretted buying an alarm clock that projected the time in an eerie blue light. I never wanted to see that color again. Of course, that hadn't stopped me from binging on a half gallon of Tillamook Oregon Blueberry Patch ice cream after the CSR Team had left. But technically, that was purple.
Instead of unplugging the clock, I covered my face with a pillow, halfway hoping that I would suffocate.
Then I heard knocking, and I sat straight up.
The sound was coming from Uncle Vinnie's room next door. Was it an intruder? Or worse, a killer?
Fear filled my chest as I crept out of bed and threw on my robe. I opened my door a crack and peered out. The second floor was laid out shotgun-style with three small bedrooms on either side of the hallway and a living room and bathroom at the back of the house. There was a third floor with a walk-in attic and a tower room that my uncle had never gotten around to renovating. Gia and I occupied the two second-floor bedrooms facing the street, so all I had to do was look across the hall to see that her lights were on.
Mustering up my courage, I dashed into her room, wincing at her choice of decor. I'd never taken LSD,
"It's routine procedure to talk to everyone who saw the victim in the hours before death."
"Victim?" I put my hands on my hips. "Aren't you jumping the gun here, Detective? Margaret was eighty years old. Maybe she died of natural causes or a heart condition or something."
"Not a chance," he replied as he straightened his suit coat. "The EMTs said that she was unusually cyanotic—"
"What?" I interrupted (I owed him one). "You can't possibly think we have cyanide in the salon!"
His lips curled. "Cyanosis is when the skin turns blue because of poor circulation or a lack of oxygen in the blood."
"Oh." I collapsed into the swing. "In that case, I agree with the EMTs."
"Sure, sure." He drew his hand to his chin. "But here's the funny part," he said in a voice devoid of humor. "She's been dead for at least an hour, and yet she's still blue."
I thought of the dye but immediately dismissed the notion. "Well, of course. Now that she's dead, she definitely has circulation problems and a lack of oxygen in the blood."
He snorted. "Dead bodies don't turn blue, and they don't stay blue either. They turn pink." He stepped closer to the swing. "So, what I want to know is why Margaret is still as blue as the ocean down at the harbor."
My body stiffened as my mind drifted back to the dye. "I'm afraid I can't help you with that."
"That's okay. Because I know someone who can." He looked through the window at Lucy, who was sobbing in a salon chair.
A protective instinct surged through me, and I pounced like a mamma bear. "You can't possibly think that sweet girl would do anything to harm Margaret!"
He shrugged. "She was the last person to see her alive, and from what I understand, she'd just applied blue dye on the victim's hair."
"Exactly," I snapped. "She put it on her hair , not in her teacup or anything."
He cocked his head. "Now, that's an interesting remark." A smug smile spread across his lips as he jotted a note on his pad. "Anything else you'd like to add?"
My hand flew to my head, which was again starting to spin—not from an oncoming panic attack but from the absurdity of the situation. Did Detective Marshall really believe that Margaret had been murdered? Even worse, had I just incriminated Lucy in that poor woman's death?
Detective Marshall glanced toward the street, and I followed his gaze. One look told me everything I needed to know.
The Crime Scene Response Team had arrived.
* * *
As I contemplated the 3:02 a.m. reflected on my bedroom ceiling, I regretted buying an alarm clock that projected the time in an eerie blue light. I never wanted to see that color again. Of course, that hadn't stopped me from binging on a half gallon of Tillamook Oregon Blueberry Patch ice cream after the CSR Team had left. But technically, that was purple.
Instead of unplugging the clock, I covered my face with a pillow, halfway hoping that I would suffocate.
Then I heard knocking, and I sat straight up.
The sound was coming from Uncle Vinnie's room next door. Was it an intruder? Or worse, a killer?
Fear filled my chest as I crept out of bed and threw on my robe. I opened my door a crack and peered out. The second floor was laid out shotgun-style with three small bedrooms on either side of the hallway and a living room and bathroom at the back of the house. There was a third floor with a walk-in attic and a tower room that my uncle had never gotten around to renovating. Gia and I occupied the two second-floor bedrooms facing the street, so all I had to do was look across the hall to see that her lights were on.
Mustering up my courage, I dashed into her room, wincing at her choice of decor. I'd never taken LSD,
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