Four-Patch of Trouble (28 page)

Way in the back of the room, at the main doors, was Fred Fields, who'd managed to snag a spot on the security detail. He looked as anxious as he ever did, but someone had slipped him a handful of vanilla sugar cookies, which he nibbled surreptitiously.

Dee was winding down, so I rose to go to the podium. As I did, I caught a glimpse of Stefan sneaking into the room with Fred's tacit approval, perhaps as a reward for Stefan's assistance in locating me last night. There weren't any empty seats, so Stefan shuffled over to an inconspicuous spot where he could lean against the wall.

With all my new friends here, I decided there really was nothing for me to stress about. I didn't need a polished, formal speech today, not when I had a subject that was guaranteed to keep everyone's attention.

I placed my notes on the podium, just as a precaution, and then began speaking into the microphone. "Good afternoon, quilters."

The audience returned my greeting with enthusiasm, and I felt something I could only describe as the opposite of stress. Adrenaline flowed the way it always had while performing in a courtroom, but without the underlying worry of knowing that someone's future depended on what I did in the next few minutes. I was among friends, and I had a story to share.

The audience settled down again, and I said, "I'm here to tell you about how a quilt appraisal helped to solve a murder."

* * * * *

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Secret of the Painted Lady

Murder and Mai Tais

Death by Scones

Four-Patch of Trouble

Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai

Killer Closet Case

Tree of Life and Death

* * * * *

Gin Jones is a lawyer who specializes in ghost-writing for other lawyers. She prefers to write fiction, though, since she doesn't have to worry that her sense of humor might get her thrown into jail for contempt of court. In her spare time, Gin makes quilts, grows garlic, and serves on the board of directors for the XLH Network.

To learn more about Gin Jones, visit her online at:
http://www.ginjones.com

Elizabeth Ashby was born and raised in Danger Cove and now uses her literary talent to tell stories about the town she knows and loves. Ms. Ashby has penned several Danger Cove Mysteries, which are published by Gemma Halliday Publishing. While she does admit to taking some poetic license in her storytelling, she loves to incorporate the real people and places of her hometown into her stories. She says anyone who visits Danger Cove is fair game for her poisoned pen, so tourists beware! When she's not writing, Ms. Ashby enjoys gardening, taking long walks along the Pacific coastline, and curling up with a hot cup of tea, her cat, Sherlock, and a thrilling novel.

* * * * *

Danger Cove Quilting Mysteries

Four-Patch of Trouble

Tree of Life and Death (coming November 2015!)

Danger Cove Farmers' Market Mysteries

A Killing in the Market

(short story in the
Killer Beach Reads
collection.)

Helen Binney Mysteries
:

A Dose of Death

A Denial of Death

A Draw of Death

A (Gingerbread) Diorama of Death
(holiday short story)

* * * * *

of the next

DANGER COVE MYSTERY

DEADLY DYE AND A SOY CHAI

A DANGER COVE HAIR SALON MYSTERY

BY

TRACI ANDRIGHETTI & ELIZABETH ASHBY

CHAPTER ONE

"That statue's not wearing any panties!"

My body tensed at the outrage in Donna Bocca's voice. As the preeminent gossip of Danger Cove, not to mention a women's undergarment salesperson, she'd spread the news of this latest Conti family calamity all over town.

"And a child is watching," PTA member, Mallory Winchester, added through clenched teeth.

I stole a glance over my shoulder at the crowd gathering in the street. Besides Donna and Mallory, there was an elderly couple, an attractive thirty-something male with a camera, and Reverend Vickers' wife, Charlotte, with the members of her Bible study group. Even worse, a ten-year-old boy was speaking into a walkie-talkie with the intensity of a CIA agent on an intelligence-gathering mission.

I looked at my watch. It was a quarter after one on a Thursday in September. Why wasn't that kid in school?

I took a deep, calming breath of the crisp ocean air and then tried to convince myself that the situation wasn't really that bad. I mean, sure, there was a wooden statue of a gold rush era prostitute hovering, like a ghost of times past, from a rope in front of my home slash hair salon. And yes, she was skirtless and spread-eagle on a chair, displaying her intricately carved wares for all to see. But at least she had a shirt on.

"Beaver shot!" a young boy shouted.

I turned and saw packs of pre-pubescent males speeding up the sidewalk on bikes, alerted to the sex show, no doubt, by the CIA wannabe.

Okay, if little boys were ditching elementary school, then the situation
was
that bad.

I looked up toward the roof. "Tucker—" I began, trying to control the rising anxiety in my voice. "You need to get that statue down.
Now
."

"Mellow out, Cassidi," he replied. "I told you, the pulley's stuck."

Tucker Sloan was the owner of One Man's Trash, a junk shop on the outskirts of Danger Cove that dealt in antiques, used furniture, and eclectic decorative items, like my late Uncle Vincent Conti's—
ahem
—art collection. As Tucker's hippie-speak indicated, he was all about peace, love, and understanding. But right then, I wasn't about any of those things. When he'd bought the statue from me, he'd said that because of its "splayed style" it would be easier to move it out of a second-floor window than to try to take it down the spiral staircase. So much for that idea.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and whisper-shouted, "People are getting upset. Can't you unstick it?"

He shook his thick dreads. "Looks like old Sadie's not going to leave without a fight."

"Sadie?"

"Sexy Sadie's what your Uncle Vinnie used to call her. He nicknamed all of his women, real or otherwise." He grinned. "That cat was far out."

That was one way to describe him. "Could you please just try yanking the rope again?"

"Okay, but I don't think it'll do any good." Tucker braced himself with his legs and pulled until veins bulged in his neck and the fringe on his moccasins shook.

The pulley didn't budge, but Sadie did. She began to move back and forth like a swing. Each time she swung toward the street, the onlookers let out a collective gasp—and it wasn't because they were afraid that she was going to hit them.

"Seriously, Tucker?" I cried.

"I told you so, man," he replied.

I put my head in my hands—that is, until I heard one of the boys yell "Boobies!" followed by cheers from the rest of the under-twelve crowd.

I looked up and saw Zac Taylor pushing the ship's figurehead from my second-floor apartment out the double doors of the salon. It was also the likeness of a woman, but instead of baring her nether region, this one was baring her breasts. And Zac's face was buried right smack between them.

"That's a sight for sore eyes," a deep female voice said.

I turned and saw Amy Spannagel, the assistant librarian, dismounting her bike.

"You mean, an eyesore."

She pushed up her glasses. "I'm talking about Zac's ripped biceps. What are you talking about?"

I gave her a blank stare. For a PhD student, Amy could be kind of dense. But, as much as I hated to admit it, Zac's muscles were kind of distracting. Repairing boats at the Pirate's Hook Marine Services had done his body good. "I'm talking about my Uncle Vinnie's antique porn."

"It's not porn." She tucked a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear. "It's art."

"Psh," I said with a flick of my hand. "You're from Seattle."

She arched her quasi unibrow. "So?"

"So, it's a lot more open-minded than where I'm from. Trust me. In Fredericksburg, Texas, this stuff is straight up smut. And apparently," I began, glancing back at the scowling faces in the crowd as Zac pulled the bare-breasted wench down the steps of the porch and into the yard, "it's smut in Danger Cove too."

Amy inclined her head to one side and nodded, conceding my porn point.

"Zac," Tucker shouted, "Sadie's putting up a fight. Come and give her a tug from below."

"Sure thing," he replied. "Just let me put Pearl on the truck."

"Who's Pearl?" Amy asked.

"That figurehead," Tucker replied. "She was the apple of Vinnie's eye."

I frowned at Pearl's cupless corset. "She's a real peach, all right."

Zac pushed Pearl up a ramp and into the bed of Tucker's old pickup. Then he walked between Sadie's legs, jumped up, and grabbed onto her thighs.

I was less than thrilled about the suggestive scene, but I was more than happy that he was blocking the va-jayjay view.

"Now that's what you call eye candy," Amy breathed, ogling the backside of Zac's tight jeans.

"Hello!" I gave her a shove.

"What?" She lurched to the side and stumbled out of a penny loafer.

"I'm trying to clean up the image of The Clip and Sip and the Conti family name, and your gawking isn't helping."

Avoiding my gaze, Amy put her shoe on and pulled her socks high, as though suddenly ashamed of her naked knees.

"She's starting to drop," Zac announced as he let go of Sadie's massive thighs. But instead of lowering to the ground, she began to rock left and right.

The little boys began whistling and fist pumping like budding wannabe strip club patrons.

"Sadie sure is kicking up a fuss," Tucker commented.

"She's kicking all right," I yelled. "A burlesque version of the cancan."

No sooner had I spoken than a woman in the crowd let out a muffled cry.

Amy turned toward the street. "Looks like Charlotte Vickers just went down."

I threw my hands in the air. "That's it," I shouted. "Cut the rope."

"But Sadie's over a hundred and fifty years old," Tucker protested. "She might not survive the fall."

"Then you can take comfort in the fact that she's had a good, long life." I pointed at the offending item. "Now, you promised me that this would be a quick job, so you've got ten more minutes to get this junk off my property."

Tucker pulled a pocketknife from the front pouch of his Mexican Baja jacket and began cutting. "This is a real drag, man."

After a few seconds, the rope snapped and Sadie hit the ground. But she didn't have the decency to fall on her face. She landed upright, lascivious grin and all.

Tucker hurried down the ladder and ran to Sadie's side. After he was sure that her parts were intact, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Groovy." 

"Yeah, outtasight." I put my hands on my hips. "You dig?"

His face was expressionless. Then a light went on in his burned-out brain. "Grab a leg, Zac. Let's get Sadie on the truck."

Zac ran a hand through his thick, brown hair and flashed me a mischievous smile. "Did you want us to take Hope, Faith, and Charity too?"

My face turned as pink as my Blushing Berry lip gloss. He was referring to a painting-sized photograph from the late 1800s of three prostitutes on their backs with legs splayed, clothed only in socks and shoes.

"We'd be happy to take them off your hands," he added, winking a sexy, steel blue eye.

"I'm sure you would," I intoned as he turned to help Tucker with Sadie.

"Hey," Amy said, punching my arm.

"Ow." I glared at her as I rubbed my bicep. "What did you do that for?"

"Because you promised me that picture."

"You can have it. But why would you want that hideous thing?"

"It's vintage erotica." She adjusted her beige cardigan. "And not everyone can have blonde hair and a petite figure like you. Some of us girls need a little help with the opposite sex."

I pretended to be absorbed in the loading of Sadie onto the truck. Amy and I had become friends a couple of months ago when I started studying for my online accounting class at the library. And if there was one thing I'd learned (it wasn't accounting), it was that she liked to talk about her nonexistent love life. As much as I wanted to be there for her, now wasn't the time. I had a staff meeting to plan and a quiz to study for. Besides, truth be told, talking about Amy's man troubles reminded me of mine, and that was something I'd rather forget.

"The girls are ready to go," Tucker said as Zac slammed the door of the truck bed shut. "Later, Cassidi."

Now that Sadie and Pearl were covered by a tarp, I turned to the sizable crowd. "Peep show's over, folks."

The townspeople began to disperse, and Tucker climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. Zac saluted and got into the truck.

"Wait," I said, approaching the passenger door. "How much do I owe you for helping Tucker move the, uh, things?"

He leaned out the window. "Nothing. I used to work for Tucker in high school, so I was happy to help." He paused. "Especially since it meant coming to your place."

Flustered by his comment, I pulled some cash from the pocket of my jeans. "I insist."