Murder Curlers and Kites

  When beautician Valentine Beaumont’s star employee, Jock de Marco, goes missing, Valentine fears the worst. Jock could turn a Plain Jane into a knockout with the mere touch of his comb. But despite his talents in the salon, this tame career might not be enough to distance himself from a dangerous past that may be coming back to haunt him.

  Valentine will stop at nothing until she finds out what happened to this Argentinean Hercules, but other things are getting in her way: an elusive assailant, a cryptic email, an infuriating employee, and one hot detective who is pressuring her to give up her search for the sexy stylist.

  Can this impulsive heroine uncurl the mystery and save Jock? Or will she be too late and live a lifetime filled with regret?

  “Arlene McFarlane seamlessly blends fashion, fun, and a frenzied murder in her breezy beach read, Murder, Curlers & Kites! If you’re looking for a fabulous stay-cation escape this summer, I highly recommend it!”

  –New York Times Bestselling Author, Gemma Halliday

  “Fresh, sexy, and original! Valentine’s inventiveness and sharp wit dazzle in this hilarious, clever romp!”

  –USA Today Bestselling Author, Diana Orgain

  “Murder, Curlers & Kites will have you on the edge of your salon seat with mascara running from laugh-crying while fanning yourself from the heat—and I don’t mean from the hair dryer!”

  –USA Today Bestselling Author, Traci Andrighetti

  “A clever mystery and a loveable heroine who looks great while hunting down bad guys. A perfect summer read!”

  –USA Today Bestselling Author, Sam Cheever

  Table of Contents

  MURDER, CURLERS, AND KITES

  About the Book

  Reviews

  Dedication

  Salon Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Books by Arlene McFarlane

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Book Club Discussion Questions

  Note to Readers

  Social Media Links

  Copyright

  DEDICATION

  To my devoted readers:

  Your love for Valentine motivates me daily.

  CHAPTER ONE

  May had never looked cheerier. Skies were blue, buds were blooming, my smile was wide, my mood buoyant. I could feel it. Today was going to be one of those days where everything went right. Lady Luck probably figured I’d had enough misfortune lately to warrant a carefree Friday.

  My name is Valentine Beaumont. My surname comes from my French side, my coloring—think Kim Kardashian—from my Armenian side, and I’m not sure who’s to blame for my impulsive side.

  I own and run Beaumont’s, a full-service salon in a charming section of Rueland, Massachusetts, minutes north of Boston. I’m also a part-time sleuth with a tendency to unearth dead bodies, which is what I meant by the misfortune part.

  There’s been considerable controversy over my involvement in solving homicides, mostly because I use my beauty tools in ways most people wouldn’t imagine. I’d once brought a murderer to his knees by whacking him with a hot three-pronged curling iron, then using it to melt a hole in his bag of cocaine, spreading the drug everywhere. Not ideal uses for a beauty tool, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  The fact that I’d had a sizzling, albeit exhaustive, night with Michael Romero, the hot cop in my life, may have had something to do with my cheery mood, my ridiculous smile, and the reason I felt nothing could go wrong today. Even the bird poop that seconds ago had landed on the windshield of my yellow Daisy Bug wasn’t going to bring me down on this glorious morning.

  I swerved into the parking lot I shared with Friar Tuck’s donut castle and pulled up beside a shiny silver sports car that by its sleekness alone warned away the breeze and rustling debris. I’d never seen a car like this in my part of the lot before, much less knew who could own it.

  My smile waned, my twitching nose telling me something was up. Who was booked this morning? Off the top, I knew Mrs. Benedetti was my first client.

  Mrs. Benedetti was in her seventies, Italian to the core, and wouldn’t think twice about slapping someone upside the head if they needed sense knocked into them. Though her Mafia-linked sons went around town in flashy cars, flaunting wads of cash, Mrs. Benedetti drove a big old boat with long fins at the back. And there it was, right half of the car perched on the curb ten feet from Friar Tuck’s rusty revolving donut pole.

  I clutched my ever-present black beauty bag, angled out of my Bug, and gave the sleek car another suspicious look. I didn’t want to keep Mrs. Benedetti waiting, so I skipped buying a box of Tuck’s Tidbits and darted past the Dumpster behind our buildings.

  Friar Tuck’s back door creaked open on the other side of the Dumpster. A second later, a paper coffee cup was pitched on top of the bin’s overflowing trash. The cup tipped toward me, and I watched in horror as coffee sprayed onto my trendy white mini dress.

  “Aaah!” I yelped, arms and legs spread wide as brown spots saturated the patterned yellow daisies on my dress.

  Silence ensued, followed by a croaky voice I recognized as Austin’s from the donut shop. “Valentine? Is that you?”

  The pimply adolescent poked his head around the Dumpster in his Robin Hood uniform and gawked at me from head to toe. I gawked back, in too much shock to answer.

  “Hey, cool retro outfit.” He nodded in approval, coming into full view. “I especially like your poufy hair and go-go boots. You look like a Barbie doll. Or that Twiggy chick from the sixties I saw in one of my grandma’s old magazines.” He pushed back his felt crown and leaned in, brows knit together. “But you should know you’ve got coffee stains all over.”

  Restraining myself from clobbering him for ruining my dress—not to mention lumping me in with the grandma reference—I lowered my arms and took a deep breath. “Yes, I know, Austin. Thanks for pointing that out.”

  He shrugged. “Glad to help.”

  He plodded back into Friar Tuck’s, and I hitched my bag over my right shoulder, accidentally tearing out my glittery hooped earring with my thumb. Youch. The hoop dropped to the ground with a clink, and I squeezed my eyes tightly, massaging my ear from the sharp sting.

  Exhaling in frustration, I scooped up the earring, cleaned it off, and speared it back through my ear lobe. Then I marched my stained white go-go boots into the shop. These mishaps would not spoil my day. Thankfully, the pleasing smell of bergamot essential oil soothed my jagged nerves while Andrea Bocelli’s version of “O Sole Mio” echoed down the hall.

  Since Mr. Worldly, a.k.a. Jock de Marco, began working in the salon, the music had shifted from jazz and rock to pieces that, as Jock put it, were drenched in emotion. With his mysterious, vast connections, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the tenor Bocelli himself singing in the salon.

  Secretly, the music had begun to soak into my skin. It was one of the things I looked forward to every morning when I came to work. Usually it went downhill from there.

  “Jocko! Jocko! Jocko!” Mrs. Benedetti chanted in her husky, accented voice.

  I rounded the corner into the Mediterranean-styled salon and saw the Italian matriarch, plumply filled out in typical black, reach up past Jock’s mammoth washboard chest rippling under his tailored blue
shirt, and squeeze his cheeks.

  Another one bites the dust, I thought, adding my first client to the harem that idolized Jock. My smile faded another notch, but not because of Mrs. Benedetti’s gushing display. A nagging feeling needled me that something was off in the salon.

  Clients in the waiting area chatted, mini lights to my right above the four cutting stations twinkled through grapevines on the stucco wall, and Maximilian Martell, my second-in-command, was at his station, dazzling his own first client of the morning with her haircut.

  “Valentina!” Mrs. Benedetti extended her hand toward me, her purse dangling from her arm. “This man”—she beamed from Jock to me—“he is truly a god.”

  “Oh?” Derailed from whatever was pulling at me, I turned down the volume on Bocelli and joined the others. “What did this god do that was so amazing?”

  I didn’t dare look at Jock, but the heated tension was there. Thing was, the guy was loved by everyone. Men. Women. Cats. Dogs. If there were such a thing as a real-life Hercules, it’d be this gorgeous, enigmatic Argentinean.

  “He’s a-going to fit in my daughter, Carla, tomorrow, for the works.” Mrs. Benedetti bobbed her head at me. “Carla needs help, no? You’ve seen her, Valentina. She doesn’t hold a candle to you with your lustrous burgundy hair, your beautiful skin, and Mamma mia, those amber eyes!” She elbowed Jock, his arms folded in front. “My sons…they say they’d swim the Mediterranean for a chance with a sensual woman like Valentina.”

  Jock grinned. “I hope they have good lungs.”

  She whacked her purse across his biceps. “You must-a be blind not to notice this girl’s beauty.”

  I knew I was blushing, but no way was I going to look up and catch Jock’s teasing eye. Truth was, not only was this god well loved, but he’d also succeeded at everything from navy firefighting to ranking as a master-at-arms to stunt-doubling. Why he’d resumed hairstyling and chosen to work for me was something I’d never understand.

  To say I enjoyed working side by side with this intriguing hero was an understatement. Our day-to-day banter was stimulating, witty, and at times, sexy. But I also reminded myself he was an employee, not a lover. The lines blurred from time to time—we’d had our moments—but he knew where things stood.

  I squared my shoulders, pleased at how in control I felt. “Your daughter simply hasn’t found her style yet, Mrs. Benedetti. But I’m sure this god’s the right person to give it to her.”

  Jock raised a suggestive eyebrow at me, then took a second to appraise me in my newly stained dress. He slowly grazed his finger across my neckline and put it to his tongue. “Mmm. Cappuccino. When did you start drinking the java?”

  My breath caught in my throat from his touch, and I patted my dress, double-checking it hadn’t gone up in flames.

  “Aha!” Mrs. Benedetti piped. “You see? You do notice this beauty.”

  Jock hadn’t taken his eyes off me. “I notice a lot more than Valentina thinks.”

  I swallowed thickly, ignoring the way he mimicked Mrs. Benedetti’s pronunciation of my name. “I didn’t start drinking the java.” I shook the hem of my dress, airing out the damp spots. “I was merely the target of a flying coffee cup. Nothing that’s going to ruin my day.” How many times had I already thought that this morning?

  I gave Mrs. Benedetti a gentle nudge toward the hall. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in Ti Amo for that wax job? I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She slipped out a tiny flask from her purse, steeling herself. “This time, I come prepared. And I pay for Carla’s treatment today. You name the price. This is my gift to her.”

  Jock ushered her down the hall to the treatment room, and I aimed for the nine-by-nine dispensary—our supply room and nook between customers—coming an inch from bumping into Phyllis Murdoch, employee #3, shuffling out in her latest handmade getup.

  Uh-huh. The something that was off.

  Phyllis was packed into a yellow satin kimono like those delicate geishas portrayed in Japanese paintings. Unfortunately, delicate wasn’t a term used when describing Phyllis. Her face was unevenly powdered white, her mahogany hair was swept up and dyed black, and her lips were painted like two maraschino cherries. Plus, she was wearing white socks and two-inch wooden-based flip-flops on her feet.

  She click-clacked past me in her tapered kimono and squirted a huge glob of the new setting gel I’d ordered last week onto Mrs. Wozniak’s head. The tube wheezed, signaling it’d almost been emptied, and the glob streamed down her client’s face.

  “What the heck?” Phyllis smeared gel off Mrs. Wozniak’s cheek and flapped her wet hand in the air like a dog shaking its fur after a bath.

  Max and I ducked, narrowly missing being slung with goop.

  It was clear Phyllis hadn’t read up on the product, and my heartbeat quickened at the thought of poor, hard-of-hearing Mrs. Wozniak walking out of the salon, hair spiked like a blowfish.

  “Phyllis…” I lowered my voice, edging closer. “You’re only supposed to use a dime-sized portion of that gel, and you need to warm it in your hands first before applying it to wet hair.”

  “Pff.” She gave me a flippant wave. “That’s how you apply it. I have my own technique.”

  “Also known as the lamebrain technique.” Max had sent off his client and was scribbling in a notebook he’d grabbed from his station, eyes on Phyllis making a mess of her lady’s hair.

  For obvious reasons, I kept it a secret that Phyllis was distantly related to me on my mother’s side. She remained in my employment because it was easier to face her ineptitude every day than it was letting her go and risk being put in front of the firing squad made up of my mother’s aunts.

  “Eek!” Mrs. Wozniak clutched her scalp with a bony-knuckled grip.

  Phyllis tore a comb through the hardened gel on the woman’s hair, and Max whipped out his phone, clicking pictures of his co-worker in action.

  “Phyllis,” I said, pulse hammering, “you need to wash out the gel and start over.”

  She swept away the flowery things dangling from the chopsticks in her hair, then jerked Mrs. Wozniak back into the sink. “It’s not my fault the stuff hardened so fast. If she had hair like mine, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  I was trying hard not to stare at Madame Geisha’s patchy dye job and the ornate chopsticks holding up her saggy bun, but ignoring Phyllis’s hairdo was like turning a blind eye to an ogre with three heads. “Speaking of, why is your hair tinted black today?” Not the only thing I was wondering.

  “To go with the outfit,” she responded, unaware of the water trickling down her client’s neck. “Do I ask you why you poufed up your hair today and dressed like a sixties replica?”

  Her remark didn’t faze me. Piecing together an outfit was one of my God-given gifts, and my aim was to look like a sixties hipster, minus the coffee stains.

  She flung Mrs. Wozniak upright, nearly ejecting her from her seat. “I’m amazed I colored anything at all. You know you need another tint bottle? That one with the white lid is a loose cannon. Squirts tint everywhere but on the hair.”

  Max, who has been in my employ almost since day one, rolled his eyes in a full circle. “Like how you just sprayed water everywhere but on your client’s hair.”

  Phyllis slapped a towel around Mrs. Wozniak’s neck, sneering at Max. “I would’ve asked you to color it last night,” she said to me, “but you had that date with Romeo, so I did it myself.”

  “It’s Ro-mero,” I emphasized, my insides boiling from her lack of courtesy, “and I would’ve delayed the date in order to help you.” I gaped from her to the floor. “What’s this black stuff we’re stepping on?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Huh?” She leaned over and ogled the black smudges on the ceramic tile circling willy-nilly around the stations, into the dispensary. “See? That bottle’s the pits. Must’ve left a trail to the sink when I went to wash it out.”

  “A trail! Hansel and Gretel would’ve needed a GPS to follow
this path. How do you suppose we’ll get these marks off the floor?” My patience was wearing thin, and it was only 9:15 in the morning. So much for starting the day in a great mood.

  “I’ll clean it up,” Phyllis said, unbothered by the steam whistling out my ears.

  “You don’t have enough spit in your mouth to clean the whole floor,” Max volunteered.

  “Hardy-hoo-hoo.” Phyllis swung her head from Max to my bag squashed under my arm. “Enough about the floor. Where are the Tidbits?”

  “Who cares about Tidbits?” Mrs. Wozniak squawked at us. “I want to know where Phyllis is today. This nitwit doesn’t know a curler from a comb.”

  Max smiled and patted Mrs. Wozniak’s shoulder, enunciating his words crystal clear. “That nitwit, darling, is Phyllis. But you’re right. She doesn’t know a curler from a comb.”

  I repeated today’s mantra that everything was going to go right, when the tension in my neck reminded me I’d been wrong before. “I didn’t have time to buy Tidbits, Phyllis. Feel free to get a box from Friar Tuck’s when you’re done here.”

  Leaving the scene before I strangled someone in a kimono, I carted my bag into the dispensary and plunked it on the counter, giving a routine glance at the appointment book. I was looking for clues as to who owned the sports car when Max wandered in with his notebook. “The queen of day-old donuts buy a box of fresh Tidbits to share? That’ll be the day.”

  I gave up studying the appointment book and eyed Max in his sharp dress shirt and perfectly fitted pants. Choosing not to discuss Tidbits or Phyllis’s cheapness any further, I motioned to his hand. “What’s with the notebook and picture-taking? All you need is a fedora on your head, and you’d have the whole reporter look down.”