Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) by Traci Andrighetti, Elizabeth Ashby
Authors: Traci Andrighetti, Elizabeth Ashby
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walked in the direction of the Pirate's Hook Marine Services, I pushed back my chair before Amy could punch me in the arm or return my kick. "So, where do I find this Dee person?"
She rose to her feet. "The Danger Cove Historical Museum. The guild has been holed up there for the past couple of days trying to finish some quilts for the lighthouse fundraiser tonight," she said as she walked over to the bike rack. "If you want to ride on the handlebars, I could drop you off on my way to work."
"I'd rather walk." I removed eight dollars from my wallet and placed it under the sugar caddy. "It'll give me time to think about what I should ask Dee."
"Suit yourself." Amy mounted her bicycle. "But be careful how you approach her. She's a real handful."
As I headed up the pier toward Main Street, I thought about Amy's warning. I wasn't sure how I was going to handle Dee or this whole situation. I mean, back home I wasn't exactly known as "the girl most likely to dig in her heels" when the going got rough. I was more like "the girl most likely to hike up her skirt and run." The most infamous example was when I broke off my engagement to Shane—at the altar. Yes, I was a runaway bride, but not because of my anxiety issue, because that actually started happening after I ran. It was because I realized a little late in the game that my impending marriage was a knee-jerk reaction to my parents' divorce.
But this was the new, do-over me. And if I could handle the likes of Gia and Amy, I could handle anyone.
Except for maybe Bertha Braun.
* * *
My thighs burned as I climbed the never-ending concrete staircase to the second floor of the Danger Cove Historical Museum. I resolved to find a gym with a StairMaster or do some hiking around the cove, but only after this whole mess at the salon was behind me, of course.
When I finally reached the landing, I headed down the hallway to the community room and peered inside. Except for the high ceilings and the large windows overlooking Main Street, the space looked something like a clothing sweatshop. It was arranged in an assembly line for various stages of the quilt-making process. Everywhere I looked, women were hard at work cutting, basting, sewing, and ironing. There were even a few men helping out, and an adorable labradoodle service dog was curled up on the floor.
"Aren't you the Conti girl?" a frail-looking, white-haired woman asked. She was seated at a table near the door, hand sewing binding to the back of a quilt.
"Yes, ma'am." I was tempted to clarify that my name was Cassidi, but I thought better of it. Judging from her gruff tone, the woman was nowhere near as docile as she looked.
"Nasty business at The Clip and Sip yesterday," she said, keeping her eyes focused on her stitching.
I opened my mouth to reply, but the word "nasty" threw me. I wasn't sure whether she was talking about what had happened with Margaret or with Sadie and Pearl.
"Don't just stand there, dear," a tall woman in her mid-sixties said as she approached with a spool of white thread. "Come in."
I stepped inside but stayed close to the door. Something about the white-haired one made me uneasy.
"I'm Emma Quinn, and this is my friend Dee Madison," she said, gesturing toward the older woman. "Are you a quilter, Cassidi?"
I blinked. I don't know why, but it still surprised me when townspeople knew my name. "Uh, no, ma'am. My mother and my grandmother quilt, but I don't sew."
She smiled and smoothed her dyed brown hair. "Well, if you'd like to learn, you've come to the right place. The people in this room have hundreds of years of combined experience, and Dee used to be a quilting teacher."
"Actually," I began, turning to face Dee, "I came to talk to Ms. Madison about Margaret Appleby."
Emma exchanged a look with Dee as she placed the spool in front of her.
"Have a seat," Dee said, her gaze still fixed on the quilt. "Whatever you have to say to me, you can say to Emma. She knew Margaret
She rose to her feet. "The Danger Cove Historical Museum. The guild has been holed up there for the past couple of days trying to finish some quilts for the lighthouse fundraiser tonight," she said as she walked over to the bike rack. "If you want to ride on the handlebars, I could drop you off on my way to work."
"I'd rather walk." I removed eight dollars from my wallet and placed it under the sugar caddy. "It'll give me time to think about what I should ask Dee."
"Suit yourself." Amy mounted her bicycle. "But be careful how you approach her. She's a real handful."
As I headed up the pier toward Main Street, I thought about Amy's warning. I wasn't sure how I was going to handle Dee or this whole situation. I mean, back home I wasn't exactly known as "the girl most likely to dig in her heels" when the going got rough. I was more like "the girl most likely to hike up her skirt and run." The most infamous example was when I broke off my engagement to Shane—at the altar. Yes, I was a runaway bride, but not because of my anxiety issue, because that actually started happening after I ran. It was because I realized a little late in the game that my impending marriage was a knee-jerk reaction to my parents' divorce.
But this was the new, do-over me. And if I could handle the likes of Gia and Amy, I could handle anyone.
Except for maybe Bertha Braun.
* * *
My thighs burned as I climbed the never-ending concrete staircase to the second floor of the Danger Cove Historical Museum. I resolved to find a gym with a StairMaster or do some hiking around the cove, but only after this whole mess at the salon was behind me, of course.
When I finally reached the landing, I headed down the hallway to the community room and peered inside. Except for the high ceilings and the large windows overlooking Main Street, the space looked something like a clothing sweatshop. It was arranged in an assembly line for various stages of the quilt-making process. Everywhere I looked, women were hard at work cutting, basting, sewing, and ironing. There were even a few men helping out, and an adorable labradoodle service dog was curled up on the floor.
"Aren't you the Conti girl?" a frail-looking, white-haired woman asked. She was seated at a table near the door, hand sewing binding to the back of a quilt.
"Yes, ma'am." I was tempted to clarify that my name was Cassidi, but I thought better of it. Judging from her gruff tone, the woman was nowhere near as docile as she looked.
"Nasty business at The Clip and Sip yesterday," she said, keeping her eyes focused on her stitching.
I opened my mouth to reply, but the word "nasty" threw me. I wasn't sure whether she was talking about what had happened with Margaret or with Sadie and Pearl.
"Don't just stand there, dear," a tall woman in her mid-sixties said as she approached with a spool of white thread. "Come in."
I stepped inside but stayed close to the door. Something about the white-haired one made me uneasy.
"I'm Emma Quinn, and this is my friend Dee Madison," she said, gesturing toward the older woman. "Are you a quilter, Cassidi?"
I blinked. I don't know why, but it still surprised me when townspeople knew my name. "Uh, no, ma'am. My mother and my grandmother quilt, but I don't sew."
She smiled and smoothed her dyed brown hair. "Well, if you'd like to learn, you've come to the right place. The people in this room have hundreds of years of combined experience, and Dee used to be a quilting teacher."
"Actually," I began, turning to face Dee, "I came to talk to Ms. Madison about Margaret Appleby."
Emma exchanged a look with Dee as she placed the spool in front of her.
"Have a seat," Dee said, her gaze still fixed on the quilt. "Whatever you have to say to me, you can say to Emma. She knew Margaret
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