Girl in the Shadows (Cozy Mystery) (Diamond Files Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  As I turned toward the door, I heard voices. It was a man and a woman, bickering over who'd made coffee last. Apparently, the back wall of the washroom was quite thin, and a staff break room lay on the other side. I was about to leave the washroom when I heard someone say my name—not my real name, but my fake one, Deborah O'Dare.

  The man, who I quickly identified as my stylist, Richie, said, “She's too young and edgy to be friends with Mitzi Kensington. Maybe she's friends with the daughter.”

  The woman replied, with all the drama of someone giving testimony on a daytime talk show, “Honey, I'm just saying it's weird. All I know is when her assistant booked the appointment, he was very specific, and it was, point-by-point, the exact same as Mitzi's secret recipe. The same, honey! You gotta find out how she knows Mrs. K. Work it into conversation, little man.”

  Richie groaned. “I've been trying for the last two hours, but she keeps begging to hear more about my dog.”

  “Honey, you high? She did not ask you for more of your dumb poodle stories.”

  He let out an embarrassed laugh. “Not with her words, but with her eyes.”

  “If you get her talking about Mrs. K, find out if she knows about those bruises we used to see on that woman. Those bruises that stopped now that her dog of a husband got what he had coming.”

  “That man was a bad dog,” Richie said with a surprising amount of venom. “I'm glad he's not bullying her anymore. Bullies are so mean.”

  Something in the staff kitchen began to whir noisily—a coffee bean grinder—and drowned Richie out. I waited with breathless anticipation for more.

  When the grinder stopped, I heard Richie saying, “Every time I saw poor Mrs. K with bruises, I was tempted to pay Mr. K a visit myself.”

  The woman laughed. “And what would you have done, Richie? Overprocessed his hair and given him split ends?”

  Richie chuckled. “I did what I could. When the police questioned me after the fact, I didn't say one peep about the bruises. But you and I both know that woman snapped and hired someone to take care of business.”

  “You can't prove that,” the woman said. “Why are you so sure?”

  “A woman's stylist knows,” Richie said. “The stylist always knows.”

  “You'd better keep your mouth shut,” she said. “Killers don't like loose ends. Mrs. K likes you, but nobody likes you more than staying outta prison. She could send her guy after you next.”

  “Don't I know it,” he said heavily. “I won't say a peep to another living soul, other than you.” There was the sound of cupboard doors being opened and closed. “I'd better get back to my client. We're going another shade lighter in the front.”

  “Good call.”

  “And I'm going to tell her about my emergency trip to the vet clinic to remove two pounds of chocolate from my seventeen-pound dog.”

  “Barf,” the woman said.

  “Actually, the treatment did involve a large amount of barf.”

  I heard more cupboards opening and closing. Someone else entered the staff break room, grumbling about evil carbohydrates and needing to eat her lunch early.

  I exited the staff washroom quietly and speed walked back to the fourth-best treatment chair in the salon. I was grateful for my ungainly height, which necessitated wearing flat shoes. In my soft-soled flats, I was a stealthy amateur detective.

  I beat Richie back to the chair and was fluffing out my cape when he arrived with a fresh cup of coffee.

  Richie gave my neck a curious look. “Is that a bruise?” he asked.

  I reached through the opening in my cape to point at the brown spot on the right side of my neck, halfway between my earlobe and my shoulder. “Just a birthmark,” I said. “Most people think it's a hickey, which can be embarrassing.”

  “You could cover it with makeup,” Richie said.

  “Tried it. Looks fake.”

  In a high voice, he declared, “You didn't do it right!” He opened a cupboard and pulled out a kit that resembled a fishing tackle box. “May I?” He was already holding up discs of makeup in pale flesh tones.

  “Sure,” I said.

  He began applying the makeup with firm, triangular sponges.

  After a minute, I commented, “You're really good at this. I guess you've had to help your clients hide other marks, like scars, or bruises.”

  “Sometimes.” Richie let out a nervous neigh of laughter. “I have a friend named... Mary. She's into sports. She always had sports bruises on her arms and sometimes on her neck.”

  “How is she doing these days? Still getting bruises?”

  He froze and gave me a wary look, the whites visible all the way around his dark irises. “She's doing well,” he said tightly. “She's taken a break from sports and gotten into less-intense hobbies.”

  “Good for her,” I said. “Is she happier now?”

  Richie pulled back from me and coughed into his elbow. “Sorry. I might be getting a cold. I lost sleep last week due to a chocolate incident. If you want to see a neat magic trick, my seventeen-pound dog can make two pounds of chocolate disappear!”

  From there, Richie launched into the whole anecdote. I smiled and pretended to be fascinated. For the next thirty minutes, I wore a mask of mild interest while I got my hair lightened another shade.

  Inside, I was a swirling mess of emotions. On one hand, I was so angry at myself for not having the courage to ask Richie the prepared questions about Mitzi Kensington. It was just like me to succumb to nerves. I hated that about myself. I hated my weakness for choking under pressure.

  But, on the other hand, I was excited about the information I'd overheard through the washroom door. I'd failed hopelessly in my task, yet I'd gotten lucky anyway.

  It was new information to shed new light on the case. According to the police report, Mitzi and Brock Kensington's marriage had been a peaceful one, with no allegations of abuse.

  The first reported act of violence in the Kensington home had happened on April 5th, the night of the homicide. Mrs. Kensington and her daughter, Megan Kensington, had arrived at their home just before nine p.m. They'd been out of town for three days on a shopping trip. The women were horrified to discover Brock Kensington on the floor in the kitchen, unresponsive. Megan dialed 9-1-1 while her mother attempted to resuscitate Mr. Kensington. Mitzi could be heard sobbing in the background of the recorded phone call.

  The police and paramedics arrived at the scene within twenty minutes, but Mrs. Kensington had already taken several sedatives and could barely hold her head up.

  The police searched the premises and found signs of a break-in. A window at the back of the house had been smashed with a rock from the yard, and the home had been ransacked for valuables. Several electronic devices had been unplugged and stacked near the back door, a sign of the abandoned burglary.

  What the police didn't know was that the marriage had not been perfect. But now I knew what the homicide detectives didn't, thanks to the concern of the woman's chatty stylist.

  If Richie's theory was correct, we were looking for a hit man, hired by Mrs. Mitzi Kensington.

  Chapter 3

  2:15p.m.

  As I stepped out of Salon Ronaldo, I was greeted by a loud wolf whistle from Derek and a howl from the beagle, Chewie.

  “I shouldn't have whistled,” Derek Diamond said apologetically as he approached. “That sound sets off Chewie, but you deserve it, Legally Blonde. You look exactly like Reese Witherspoon.”

  “Not by a long shot.” I shook my lightened locks and glanced around the parking lot self-consciously. “Do you know how short she is? You'd need to stack two Reese Witherspoons on top of each other to make one of me. And more importantly, see my long, oval-shaped face? I look nothing like her.”

  He shrugged. “There's more to looks than how you look.”

  Chewie let out one last hound-dog howl before sniffing my hand while I stroked her dark-tan velvet ears. I puzzled over what Chewie's owner had said. There's more to looks than
how you look. It made no sense whatsoever, but at the same time, was also profoundly true. An impression or memory of a person wasn't the same as a photo.

  And, on that note, Mrs. Kensington's description of her marriage wasn't the same as the truth.

  Derek and I walked back to the car. It was still where I'd parked, away from the salon entrance but in a tree-shaded spot. Papers and photographs were spread out on the back seat. Derek had been using the car as a traveling office for the last three hours while I'd been getting my hair bleached to near invisibility.

  We got into the vehicle, and he gave me an expectant look. “The guy—Ricky—he was loquacious?”

  “His name's Richie, and yes. Super chatty. He... well, another lady, I couldn't... I tried, but then, in the washroom...”

  Derek handed me a bottle of water. “Take your time,” he said soothingly.

  My cheeks flushed with heat, and my scalp suddenly felt like it was being poked by a thousand needles. Despite the time-consuming foiling process, the chemicals had still irritated my sensitive scalp. I glanced at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. My face was a mess of red blotches. What was I doing, spying on people? Who did I think I was? My cheeks felt hotter and hotter, like I was about to implode from the pressure.

  “Try breathing,” Derek said lightly. “I hear oxygen helps.”

  I took in a gasp of air and blew it out noisily. “Sorry,” I said. “I have a tendency to hold my breath when I tense up.”

  “We're not so different, you and I. But I've been around a lot longer, so I've learned a thing or two.” He picked up Chewie from his lap and transferred her over to my lap. I pushed back my seat so she had some room. “Rest your palm on Chewie,” he said. “Feel how she keeps breathing, in and out.”

  The dog squirmed a little, but stayed on my lap. She was warmer than I'd expected. Her rate of respiration was faster than mine, so I couldn't breathe in rhythm with her or I'd hyperventilate, but feeling the rise and fall of her ribs settled my own breathing. I felt myself dipping into an underground cavern of calm. I kept my eyes open so I didn't dip too far and lose myself to tears.

  “There you go,” Derek said. “Tell me about Ricky—I mean, Richie—as soon as you're ready.”

  I took another deep breath and began to relay what I'd learned at the salon. I tripped over my words, but eventually got the story out. I glossed over the part where I'd lost my nerve and been unable to ask Richie the questions, only to get lucky while using the staff washroom.

  Derek gave me a skeptical look from the passenger seat. Even Chewie, sitting comfortably on my lap, lifted her snout and gave me a questioning look with her dark eyes.

  “Repeat that middle part,” Derek said. “Which of the questions did you begin with?”

  “You got me,” I said, exasperated. “I totally choked. I couldn't ask him anything. That whole conversation between Richie and the other woman was something I overheard when I snuck into the staff washroom.”

  Derek's expression lightened. “That's all? What a relief. I was worried you'd resorted to special favors. I had this one ambitious secretary who got guys to cooperate by—“

  I held up my hand. “No need to explain. It was nothing of the sort.”

  “Because you wouldn't do something like that,” he said.

  I shot him a withering look. After all of the supportive comments, he was back to being a clueless, thoughtless jerk.

  Through gritted teeth, I answered, “Of course not.”

  “Good,” he said cheerfully, reaching for his phone. Without looking at me, he said, “Excellent work today, Abby.” He shot me a quick look. “Did I pronounce your name right? It is Abby, isn't it?”

  “Yes. Abby Silver.”

  He let out a chuckle. “You're Silver and I'm Diamond. Together, we're jewelry. We're a match made in heaven.”

  “Or a match made by Temporarily At Your Service.”

  He didn't react to me but continued, “They say the devil has a silver tongue. Do you have a silver tongue, Abby?”

  “Based on this morning's feeble attempt at questioning, apparently not.”

  “But you've got luck.”

  “Luck?”

  “Abby Silver, you were in the right place at the right time to overhear exactly what we needed. And luck is a skill, believe it or not. I've been a detective for coming up on forty years now, so I would know. I'd be dead a dozen times over if not for luck.”

  He continued to poke at the screen of his phone. I rested my hands on the beagle on my lap, awaiting further instruction. I hoped our next destination was lunch. It was past one o'clock, and I'd barely eaten any breakfast due to nerves and the appetite-killing sight of someone else's lipstick on my coffee cup.

  Minutes passed and he didn't say anything. Was he waiting for me to inquire about the dozen times he might have been killed? What was the next step with the Kensington case?

  Casually, I asked, “So, what's next, boss? Do we start digging into Mitzi Kensington's life to find our contract killer? Look for cash withdrawals from her accounts? Search the family tree for convicted felons?”

  “The next step is shopping,” he said.

  “New hair plus shopping, all in one day,” I said jokingly. “Talk about a girl's fantasy of a Monday.”

  He didn't laugh. He just handed me a credit card with his free hand while he continued using his phone.

  “The daily limit's written on the back,” he said, and he rattled off the four-digit access code. “Go somewhere nice. Does this city have a Nordstrom? Get yourself a dark, serious suit that fits like a glove. And no trousers. Get a skirt. Pinstripes are always nice. And get a pair of heels that'll add a good three inches to your height. Or four inches, if you can walk in them. Please tell me you know how to walk like a girl.”

  I snorted, “Of course,” which was not entirely true.

  He patted his lap. “Here, girl.”

  Chewie sprang from my lap over to his. He opened his door, let her hop out first, and stepped out of the car. He leaned back in for the leash and held out his hand. “I'll take the keys,” he said.

  “You're driving us to the mall? Sure. I can navigate.”

  “Actually, you're going shopping on your own, if you can handle that. I'll be taking the hound for a walk and finding a cafe with internet access.”

  I passed him the keys and stepped out of the vehicle. The sunshine caught my lightened hair, and I got the sensation I was glowing.

  “Should I leave the tags on the suit?” I asked. “So we can return it afterward to save money?”

  “Abby, don't you worry about the budget. This is a big case.”

  “How long will it take? Going through all the woman's financials could take months.”

  “Bah,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I don't do months. We're going to crack this one before the week is done. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. You'll see.” He stooped down to click the leash onto Chewie's collar.

  “I'll meet you back here after I'm done shopping?”

  He'd started walking away and called back over his shoulder, “Take the rest of the day off. Meet me here again tomorrow morning, same time as today.”

  He began walking away, moving quickly to keep up with Chewie, who'd found an intriguing smell in the grass.

  He yelled back, “Wear the new suit, Legally Blonde. I want you to walk tall.”

  Under my breath, I muttered, “But I am tall. In four-inch heels, I'll be taller than you, you crazy old man detective.”

  * * *

  I smelled trouble in the hallway leading to my apartment. Trouble wore a specific brand of expensive cologne.

  With my bounty of shopping bags in one hand and my keys in the other, I cautiously tried the deadbolt. It was unlocked.

  Holding my breath, I withdrew my key silently and took a step back. At the bottom edge of the door, a shadow broke the pattern of light. A split second later, the door flew open.

  There stood my ex, Owen, with a bouquet of f
lowers. His red hair was boyishly tousled, and the tip of his nose was sunburned. He wore a pale-green polo shirt and crisp, light chinos rolled at the cuffs. He looked like he'd just stepped off his family's yacht after a day of boating and enjoying the good life.

  The flowers were limp carnations—a cheap afterthought, likely from the bodega on my block.

  “Look at you,” Owen said, lust oozing into his voice. He let his gaze slide all the way down my body and slowly back up to the crown of my head. “Were you always so blonde?”

  “Were you always so prone to breaking and entering?”

  He made a tsk-tsk sound. “It's not breaking and entering if you have a key.”

  “Note to self,” I said, aloud for Owen's benefit. “Get the apartment locks changed to keep out nasty elements.”

  “Abby-cakes,” he said. “C'mon inside, Abby-cakes. Look at your new prezzie. I was hoping you'd find a way to show your gratitude for my generosity.” He shifted to the side, allowing me a glimpse into my apartment.

  When I'd left that morning, my vintage fifties-era table had been sitting in the sunny corner of the apartment. The old table, with its yellow, triangle-dotted surface, had been the epitome of cheap and cheerful, much like everything else I owned. It was gone now, replaced by an elegant round pedestal table—the same one from the magazine I'd pinned on my inspiration board months earlier. I'd meant to look around for a cheap knockoff in the same style, but Owen had bought me the actual designer table.

  “Owen,” I breathed.

  I rocked on the ball of my foot, swaying on the precipice of giving in. The table must have cost thousands. Even for someone with his family's money, it would have been more than pocket change. It was such a sweet gesture. I started to take a step forward, into the apartment.

  “You shouldn't have,” I said.

  “Too late because I already did,” he said in his smug, sing-song voice. “The only problem is the new table makes everything else in the apartment look like the cheap crap it is. We can pick out a new sofa this weekend, if you like. We'll get a big one, in case one of my friends needs to crash here with us.”