Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Traci Andrighetti, Elizabeth Ashby
I looked up and saw the hulking figure of Detective Bud Ohlsen.
"Were you waiting to see me, Miss Conti?"
"Yessir, Detective, sir," I said, using my Texas police manners. Not that I'd had a lot of experience with the law—just a speeding ticket or two. Okay, and an underage drinking charge. "I'd like to talk to you about my uncle, Vincent Conti's, case."
He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I've got to run down to the pier. Can you come back in a couple of hours?"
"I'm not sure. I share a car with my cousin, and she dropped me off—"
"I'd be happy to drive you home," he interrupted. "We could talk on the way?"
"Thank you. This won't take long." I closed my book and followed him outside to the parking lot behind the station.
To my relief, he led me to an unmarked car. I wasn't relishing the thought of being spotted by the likes of Donna Bocca or Mallory Winchester in the company of the Danger Cove police so soon after the statue screw up. "I can sit in the front, right?"
He pursed his lips. "Unless you've done something I don't know about."
"Nossir, Detective." I hopped into the passenger seat and tried to wipe the guilt from my face. I hadn't done anything wrong, but dealing with the police always made me feel like I had.
Detective Ohlsen lowered himself into the car and pulled the seat belt over his wide midsection before starting the ignition. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"
"There's a water leak coming from my uncle's old bathroom, and it's damaging the ceiling above one of the salon chairs. If we don't get the pipe fixed soon, I'm afraid the sheetrock will collapse on a client."
"What makes you think the leak is coming from his bathroom?" he asked as he pulled onto the street. "If I remember correctly, there are sinks in all the upstairs bedrooms."
I shifted uncomfortably. The sinks were a not-so-charming feature from the building's brothel days, since they served as a one-stop freshen-up spot between clients, if you know what I mean. Fortunately, the LaSalle House, as the brothel was known, finally went out of business in 1955 when a group of God-fearing women (i.e., prostitute-loathing wives) set fire to the place. What remained of the building had been abandoned for forty years, until my uncle had turned the bottom floor into a hair salon and restored the top floor to its former, uh, glory. "Yeah, but the damage is right below the sink in his bathroom."
"I see." Detective Ohlsen chewed his cheek as he slowed to a stop at a red light.
I waited for him to say something. When he didn't, I cleared my throat. "Would it be all right to have a plumber come out and fix the leak?"
He exhaled. "Your uncle's room is no longer an active crime scene, but since the investigation is still ongoing, we'd like to keep it as intact as possible." He glanced at me. "You're not using the room, are you?"
"Me?" I shuddered. "Oh, no way, sir. I mean, Detective. I keep it locked at all times."
"Good." He hit the gas. "Because there's certainly no shortage of bedrooms in the place."
"So," I began, eager to shift the conversation away from all those sinks and bedrooms, "does that mean I can't call a plumber?"
He hooked a left onto Fletcher Way. "Make an appointment, and let me know the date and time. I'll send an officer out to keep contamination to a minimum."
I stiffened. The last thing The Clip and Sip needed right now was a cop car out front. "I don't suppose that there's anyway you could send someone in an unmarked car?"
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks." At least there was some good news where the salon was concerned, but I was starting to wonder whether there was ever going to be any good news for my family and me about my Uncle Vinnie's homicide investigation. "I don't suppose there've been any developments in the case?"
"Something has come to our attention, yes." He fell silent.
I'd heard that Detective Ohlsen was a man of few words, so I pressed on, desperate for some information
"Were you waiting to see me, Miss Conti?"
"Yessir, Detective, sir," I said, using my Texas police manners. Not that I'd had a lot of experience with the law—just a speeding ticket or two. Okay, and an underage drinking charge. "I'd like to talk to you about my uncle, Vincent Conti's, case."
He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I've got to run down to the pier. Can you come back in a couple of hours?"
"I'm not sure. I share a car with my cousin, and she dropped me off—"
"I'd be happy to drive you home," he interrupted. "We could talk on the way?"
"Thank you. This won't take long." I closed my book and followed him outside to the parking lot behind the station.
To my relief, he led me to an unmarked car. I wasn't relishing the thought of being spotted by the likes of Donna Bocca or Mallory Winchester in the company of the Danger Cove police so soon after the statue screw up. "I can sit in the front, right?"
He pursed his lips. "Unless you've done something I don't know about."
"Nossir, Detective." I hopped into the passenger seat and tried to wipe the guilt from my face. I hadn't done anything wrong, but dealing with the police always made me feel like I had.
Detective Ohlsen lowered himself into the car and pulled the seat belt over his wide midsection before starting the ignition. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"
"There's a water leak coming from my uncle's old bathroom, and it's damaging the ceiling above one of the salon chairs. If we don't get the pipe fixed soon, I'm afraid the sheetrock will collapse on a client."
"What makes you think the leak is coming from his bathroom?" he asked as he pulled onto the street. "If I remember correctly, there are sinks in all the upstairs bedrooms."
I shifted uncomfortably. The sinks were a not-so-charming feature from the building's brothel days, since they served as a one-stop freshen-up spot between clients, if you know what I mean. Fortunately, the LaSalle House, as the brothel was known, finally went out of business in 1955 when a group of God-fearing women (i.e., prostitute-loathing wives) set fire to the place. What remained of the building had been abandoned for forty years, until my uncle had turned the bottom floor into a hair salon and restored the top floor to its former, uh, glory. "Yeah, but the damage is right below the sink in his bathroom."
"I see." Detective Ohlsen chewed his cheek as he slowed to a stop at a red light.
I waited for him to say something. When he didn't, I cleared my throat. "Would it be all right to have a plumber come out and fix the leak?"
He exhaled. "Your uncle's room is no longer an active crime scene, but since the investigation is still ongoing, we'd like to keep it as intact as possible." He glanced at me. "You're not using the room, are you?"
"Me?" I shuddered. "Oh, no way, sir. I mean, Detective. I keep it locked at all times."
"Good." He hit the gas. "Because there's certainly no shortage of bedrooms in the place."
"So," I began, eager to shift the conversation away from all those sinks and bedrooms, "does that mean I can't call a plumber?"
He hooked a left onto Fletcher Way. "Make an appointment, and let me know the date and time. I'll send an officer out to keep contamination to a minimum."
I stiffened. The last thing The Clip and Sip needed right now was a cop car out front. "I don't suppose that there's anyway you could send someone in an unmarked car?"
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks." At least there was some good news where the salon was concerned, but I was starting to wonder whether there was ever going to be any good news for my family and me about my Uncle Vinnie's homicide investigation. "I don't suppose there've been any developments in the case?"
"Something has come to our attention, yes." He fell silent.
I'd heard that Detective Ohlsen was a man of few words, so I pressed on, desperate for some information
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