Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) Read Online Free

I routinely found bodies.
    “Dizzie Oliver. I told you I was going there with Kate to get my hair straightened. We walked into the salon early this morning and found Dizzie floating in a sink filled with water.”
    “I heard about it on News 12 ,” Bevin said. “That was you? They said two patrons discovered a stylist dead inside an exclusive hair salon in Tranquil Harbor. I figured it was either Dizzie’s salon or Trina’s. Too bad it turned out to be Dizzie. At least she knew her way around a head of hair. Dear Lord! What’s this world coming to?”
    “I’m writing it up for my column. I have two other assignments, then that’s about it until the end of the month. If I don’t go full time pretty soon, you’ll see me sitting outside the train station in Matawan selling chewed-up pencils to commuters.”
    “You got a nice settlement from the divorce,” she reminded me. “Where’s all the money going?”
    “I’m trying to live within my means,” I explained. “Unfortunately my means seem to come up a little short now and then.”
    My divorce had been finalized only two months before. My ex had been in charge of the finances throughout our marriage, which left me completely clueless about budgeting and bill paying. Though I was far from destitute, a good portion of the settlement money was tied up in stocks, bonds, and retirement accounts. I had felt a cash-flow crunch on several occasions over the past few weeks.
    “There are plenty of ways to make more money if you’re strapped for funds,” she told me.
    We sat inside her sunroom, where Bevin did most of her work. She was a good enough artist to actually make a comfortable living selling her landscapes. Her work differed from most artists in that the scenes she painted were more melancholy than serene. That air of despondency attracted interest in her work and, more importantly, buyers. Bevin’s easel stood at an angle to catch the last of the morning light coming from the east. She wore a smock splotched with dots and dribbles of color, Jackson Pollock-like, though the canvas only revealed a dull gray sky and what looked like a dirt floor toward the bottom. She kept referring to a photograph shoved between tubes of Van Dyke brown and titanium white.
    “Of course there are ways to make extra cash. But it’s not like I could go out on the street to sell my body. We both know I’d probably starve to death.” I smiled. “The only talent I have to depend on is writing.”
    Bevin put her palette aside and awkwardly pushed her stunning red hair away from her face with the heel of her hand. Her fingers, I noticed, were smeared with paint.
    “You seem to be forgetting you only freelance for the Town Crier . You’re not a permanent employee. Try some of the other newspapers and a few magazines. Query them. Send out feelers.”
    “Is that ethical?”
    “Ethical?” Bevin frowned and tossed her brush in a can of something that smelled like turpentine. I knew she considered the question absurd. “Is it ethical that you were promised a full-time position and it didn’t happen? Or that you’re broke by the end of the month and you’re newly single, with two kids to feed and a house to run? Stop with the loyalty crap. Try the Crier ’s competition. It’s not like you’re selling government secrets. You need to take care of yourself!”
    Married three times, divorced twice, and with her present marriage in ruins, Bevin considered ethical behavior a complete waste of time. She believed in making her own opportunities, occasional drunkenness, and, when necessary, doing whatever it took to get ahead. Bevin caught on fast when it came to life lessons. I had always been more of a slow learner.
    “I’m not like you, Bev. It wouldn’t seem fair.”
    She grabbed a rag off her supply table and scrubbed at her stained fingers. Even smudged with paint, her fingers looked delicate and refined. What came out of her mouth was anything but ladylike. “I never saw