The salon was in one of the storefronts along Commercial Street, the main drag of downtown Astoria. The three-story brick building had been built sometime at the turn of the last century. More recently the brick had been painted white. Large front windows were filled with spa-like elements from river rocks meant for hot-stone massage to tiers of candles in glass globes. Swirling letters proclaimed it to be Viviana’s Salon and Cosmetics. I pushed the door open and stepped inside to the pungent odor of hair products and too much perfume. My eyes began watering immediately. My head throbbed in time to the beat from the radio. Something catchy and fun. Unless you had a headache.
The girl behind the front desk, which looked more like a podium than an actual desk, glanced at me through eyes lined with thick, black kohl. Her pale-blond hair was artfully wispy with a bubblegum-pink streak over her left ear, which matched her pink and white striped shirt and pink combat boots. Her skinny jeans had artful rips in interesting places.
“Welcome to Viviana’s. How may we enhance your beauty today?” she chirped perkily, though her eyes were glazed with boredom. Or pot. Who knew around here?
“I’m looking for lipstick.”
“Oh, sure. Over here.” She tromped to a display of makeup only marginally more extensive than the drug and grocery stores. “We carry Viviana’s own line of mineral makeup. Non-toxic. All natural. So good for your skin.” She waved to one of the shelves, her pink, glittery nails flashing in the light streaming through the window. “Lipstick. What color?”
“Pink. Bright pink.”
That startled a response out of her. She eyed me doubtfully. “Are you sure?”
I stared her down. “Of course. Why?”
“Just, um, it’s not the right color for you.”
I scrambled for an excuse. The bonus of hitting the other stores was that nobody cared. They were totally anonymous. I could browse the makeup section without anyone batting an eyelash or asking silly questions about my color choices. “It’s for my mom. She loves bright pink.”
“Ohh!” The girl’s eyes widened as if it suddenly all made sense. “I have noticed older ladies tend to like bright colors.” She snagged a couple of tubes from the shelf. “These are our brightest.”
I took them from her and slipped off the lids. One was a shocking purplish color, and the other more of a raspberry. Neither of them were anything like the lipstick on the glass.
“This is all you’ve got? No pink?”
She shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Thanks anyway.”
The other salon was a few doors down from Viviana’s, but it was closed. It looked like a one-woman operation with a note on the door explaining that it was by appointment only. I couldn’t see any makeup on the display inside, so I was betting it was mail-order only.
I was having zero luck with the lipstick hunt, and my feet were starting to hurt. It was nearing lunchtime, and I was running on coffee fumes, so I decided to head to the bakery for a sandwich and more caffeination. Then I should get home and do some work.
I’d decided to swap to a different work-in-progress since I was having fits with Scarlet and Rolf. In The Rancher’s Virgin Bride, Matilda had run away from her evil, murderous husband back east and into the arms of the hot, sexy cattle rancher, Blade. Unfortunately, Blade thought Matilda was a nun. I had all kinds of interesting ideas about how to get her out of that conundrum. At least two of which involved ropes and lacy undergarments. I smirked to myself. A writer’s work was never done.
I was in my car, headed to the bakery, when the Flavel House loomed up on my left. I paused, and, without thinking, pulled my car over in front of the museum. Cardamom scones could wait. Maybe there was something yet to be learned inside the scene of the crime.
Chapter 5Curiosity Killed the Cat
ONE OF PORTIA’S COWORKERS at the museum was a young woman with the unfortunate name of Annabelle Smead. Not that Annabelle was an unfortunate name, but Smead?
I knew little about her, except that she was a single mother and had a penchant for wearing sack-like dresses in ghastly colors that clashed with her bright-red hair. What we called “carrot” back in school, but a kinder person might call “sunset.”
She jumped up from one of the armchairs the moment I walked in the front door. “Oh, Viola! Did you hear about Portia?” she blurted. She was even paler than usual, making her freckles stand out like big, brown spots. She wrung her boney hands together repeatedly. Clearly the whole mess had gotten to her.
“I did,” I assured her, noting the crime-scene tape that crisscrossed the closed doors to the study. That section was definitely off the tour today. “I went to the police station this morning.”
Annabelle’s blue eyes grew wide. “So you saw her? She’s okay?”
“No. They won’t let anyone in but her lawyer. I’m sure she’s fine, though. She’s strong.” This was Astoria, after all. Not Portland. She likely had the entire jail to herself, and they were probably feeding her fast food. Which she might consider torture, but most people would be happy with.
“Oh, she is. Such a strong woman. I admire her so much.”
Good. That was something I could work with.
“Do you think she killed The L— uh, Mr. Nixon?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes and plopped down in her armchair. There was a book sitting on the end table next to her. I noticed it was a newly released crime novel borrowed from the library down the street. “Give me a break. That girl wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Good. My sentiments exactly.” I glanced around, but the place seemed empty. “Is it all right to talk?”
“Sure.” She fidgeted, sorting stacks of brochures. “This time of day, the place is pretty empty. Have a seat.”
“Okay.” I
