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  Praise for

  the Southern Beauty Shop Mysteries

  “A CHARMING NEW SERIES.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “FANS OF THE THEMED COZY WILL REJOICE.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE NEXT BOOK!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Polished Off

  “Terrific… A fast-paced whodunit. This is a winning Georgia peach mystery.”

  —The Mystery Gazette

  “This first-rate mystery is well written, with smooth dialogue, plenty of action, and numerous suspects. Readers will be guessing all the way to the end as the victims pile up and the spunky and smart Grace stumbles upon a killer and a motive no one saw coming.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Lila Dare…once again delights her new legion of fans with a lively, hilarious mystery that will have readers biting their manicures as they try to figure out whodunit. Add in a touch of romance…and you’ve got a cozy mystery that sizzles like the Georgia heat in summer. I can’t wait for the next book in this series.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “So many twists and turns and side stories are sure to keep the reader engaged in an interesting whodunit. As a bonus, organic skincare recipes are included. A fun read all-around!”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  Tressed to Kill

  “Fans of the themed cozy will rejoice as new talent Dare debuts her Southern Beauty Shop series…Dare turns this off-the-rack concept into a tightly plotted, suspenseful mystery, and readers will love the pretty, plucky, smart, slightly damaged heroine and the rest of the charming cast.”

  —Publishers Weekly(starred review)

  “Humor, heart, and a first-class whodunit…Readers will be anxious to make the return trip to St. Elizabeth, Georgia, to check in on the adventures of the girls from Violetta’s.”

  —Casey Daniels, author of A Hard Day’s Fright

  “Tressed to Kill sparkles…Stylish, swift-paced, and charming. An endearing heroine, delightful characters, and an authentic Southern setting.”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of Dead by Midnight

  “Enticing and eccentric Southern characters combined with suspenseful tension and twists.”

  —Linda O. Johnston, author of The More the Terrier

  “[A] nicely plotted and well-executed mystery. With its uniquely Southern setting and snappy characters, this mystery is an exceptionally good addition to the cozy genre.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Loaded with Southern charm, Lila Dare’s first mystery is full of warm, eccentric characters, and hometown warmth.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “The story will grab you, and the ending is fabulous.”

  —Once Upon a Romance

  “A lot of twists and turns…Ms. Dare pens a winner. Don’t miss Tressed to Kill if you love small-town mysteries with eye-opening secrets at every turn!”

  — TwoLips Reviews

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Lila Dare

  TRESSED TO KILL

  POLISHED OFF

  DIE JOB

  LILA DARE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  DIE JOB

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Cover illustration by Brandon Dorman.

  Cover design by Annette Fiore Defex.

  Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-0-425-24588-0

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  For Paige Wheeler and Michelle Vega,

  who took a chance on me

  [ACKNOWLEDGMENTS]

  Many, many thanks to all the usual suspects—you know who you are—who sustain my spirits, support my writing life, encourage me in my writing passion, and befriend and love me through it all. I hope I do the same for you.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen:

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter One

  [Friday]

  ST. ELIZABETH SITS SMACK DAB ON THE GEORGIA coast, so when the weather forecasters start talking about a hurricane headed our way, even if it’s still way out at sea, conversation at the salon tends to center on the storm. I knew from prior experience that the Piggly Wiggly shelves would be emptied by people stocking up with enough groceries to last through Armageddon; flashligh
ts and batteries would disappear from the hardware stores; and cars, vans, and campers would clog every road as people headed inland to escape the flooding and power outages. The forecasters were saying Hurricane Horatio would probably turn north before it got to us—as most of the storms did—and come ashore somewhere in the Carolinas, so I didn’t plan to panic just yet (although I might buy a box of Twinkies, using the rationale that the preservative-rich sponge cakes would outlast life as we know it, never mind a hurricane-induced power outage). I was in the minority, however, as most of the customers at Violetta’s, my mom’s salon, joyfully wallowed in worrying about worst-case scenarios.

  “I’ve heard it’s going to be as bad as Hurricane Floyd in 1999,” one customer said.

  “These late-season storms are always the worst,” her husband said wisely from the waiting area, which consisted of two chintz-covered chairs, a matching love seat, and a couple of tables.

  “I was in Charleston for Hugo,” another woman said, “and we lost power for well over a week. This can’t possibly be that bad.”

  “My sister’s house was flattened by Andrew,” an elderly woman piped up from the Nail Nook, where our manicurist, Stella Michaelson, was painting her toenails a vivid orange.

  Ah, hurricane one-upmanship, a popular pastime on the coast whenever the forecasters start talking about named storms.

  “I’m evacuating,” a client said later that afternoon as I highlighted her hair. “Len and I are going to stay with his folks in Atlanta. I’m not living on canned ravioli like we did before we got the power back after the last storm. Although, the way his mom cooks, it’s a toss-up. What are you and Violetta doing, Grace?”

  “Oh, we’ll ride it out,” I said, carefully folding a foil around a section of hair. “This house has lasted almost two hundred years . . . I don’t suppose Horatio will be able to blow it down.” And my mother, Violetta Terhune, owner of the house and the salon that occupied the front rooms, wouldn’t leave for anything less than a tsunami. It was like she believed her presence in the house would help it withstand wind and rain and hail and flooding.

  “You’re lucky,” my client said. “They built to last in those days. We bought in that new area, Delta Bayou, and I swear our condo is made of plywood and tissue paper.”

  I made commiserating noises as I put her under the heat lamp.

  As the last customer left for the day and Mom locked the door behind her, the five of us took a deep breath and relaxed, prepping our stations for the next day. I liked the salon at times like this; it felt more like a home than a business. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams angling through the wooden blinds. The comfy waiting area and the hanging ferns and potted violets clustered on the windowsills made it feel homey, as did the wide, heart-of-pine floorboards. The figurehead from the Santa Elisabeta, a Spanish galleon that sank off the Georgia coast in the 1500s, provided benevolent supervision from her spot on the wall behind the counter.

  As I swept, our shampoo girl, seventeen-year-old Rachel Whitley, stripped off her smock, revealing her usual black attire. After a brief flirtation with being a beauty contestant this past summer, she had reverted to Goth-type clothes and ragged jet-black bangs flopped into her kohl-rimmed eyes. Her pale face with its slightly lantern-shaped jaw stood out against the black hoodie zipped up to her neck. “Guess what I’m doing tomorrow night?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She dropped into my styling chair and spun it in circles.

  “Going on a date?” Stella asked, aligning her polish bottles in the cabinet and closing it. Her white Persian, Beauty, swiped at her shoelace, and Stella shooed her away. “With that nice Braden?”

  “We’re just friends now,” Rachel said.

  I couldn’t tell if she was sad or not that they weren’t dating anymore.

  “Studying for your AP History exam,” Mom suggested teasingly. Her periwinkle blue eyes twinkled behind rimless glasses. Comfortably rounded, she had short gray and white hair she gelled into soft spikes that framed her face becomingly, giving her the look of a kind Beatrix Potter hedgehog.

  “You’re close,” Rachel said. “I’m going on a ghost-hunting field trip with my science class!”

  Oh, yeah, that sounded educational. What was on the schedule for next week—a monster-hunting trip to Loch Ness? A snowshoe adventure to find the Abominable Snowman?

  “You’re going on a field trip to do what?” Althea Jenkins, our part-time aesthetician, asked. Her brows crinkled her chocolate-colored skin clear up to the hairline of her short, gray-flecked afro.

  “Ghost hunting. Debunking, really,” Rachel said, a huge grin splitting her face. “But we need another chaperone,” she said, pleading with Mom with her Nile green eyes. “My mother was going to go, but her boss got, like, sick and is sending Mom to a convention in Lexington this weekend in his place, so we need to find someone else to chaperone or we won’t be able to go.”

  “In my day,” Althea said, putting avocado, olive oil, and a handful of herbs in a stainless steel bowl for a new moisturizer she wanted to try, “we read King Lear and did algebraic equations and dissected frogs in school. We didn’t go gallivanting about the countryside, chasing after spirits. Fah!” She shook her head, more bemused than angry. A tall woman about my mom’s age, she wore a red tunic over black jeans. She pushed the tunic’s sleeves up before mashing her ingredients with a pestle.

  “Where are you going to do your, um, debunking?” Mom asked, plopping combs into the jar of blue germicide at her station.

  “Rothmere,” Rachel said. Forearms on her thighs, she leaned toward Mom. “There’s this absolutely awesome ghost out there, Cyril Rothmere, who haunts the house looking for his murderer! Dozens of people have seen him over the years and, like, the Discovery Channel did a special on him a few years back. How cool is that?”

  “Pretty cool,” Mom said solemnly. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do on a Saturday night than go ghost hunting with your class, Rachel,” she said, “but Walter’s got tickets to Wicked in Jacksonville and we’re headed down there right after my last client.”

  Rachel swiveled in the styling chair and opened her mouth.

  “Don’t look at me,” Althea cut her off, holding up an avocado-gooped hand. “Kwasi and I have plans.”

  “Grace?” Rachel turned to me. “Please?” She drew the word out into three syllables and clasped her hands together prayerfully.

  Why was I the only one in the room without plans for a Saturday night? Mom and Althea, both widowed and sixty, had boyfriends and were headed out for wild nights on the town. Okay, maybe “wild” was an overstatement, but at least they were going out. My sort-of boyfriend, political reporter Marty Shears, had moved from Atlanta to DC two months ago for a new job with the Washington Post, leaving my weekends pretty darn empty. So, at thirty, and divorced for a year, I had rented a Julia Roberts DVD for the evening’s entertainment and was considering purchasing a pint of Chunky Monkey to add to the festivities. If I really wanted to peg the excitement meter, I would study the MLS listings my new Realtor had given me and decide which houses I wanted to view, even though, if the last few months of house hunting were any indicator, none of them would work for me. My friend Vonda said that was because I wasn’t sure about settling in St. Elizabeth, but that’s just silly. Other than my two years at UGA and my time in Atlanta with Hank, I’d lived in St. Elizabeth all my life. Marty had mentioned it would be easy for me to get stylist work in DC, but that hardly constituted a proposal, and our four months of weekend dating—Atlanta was a half-day drive—didn’t justify a cross-country move. Maybe I’d really like DC, though, when I visited Marty next weekend . . . I shook off my thoughts.

  “Oh, all right,” I told Rachel. “I suppose I can cancel my plans and go ghost hunting.” I tried to make it sound like I was passing up the opportunity to attend an inaugural ball. Althea’s snort of laughter told me I hadn’t succeeded.

  Rachel squealed and threw her arms around me. “Thank y
ou, thank you, Grace! It’ll be a blast.”

  Not knowing exactly what to expect from a ghost-hunting field trip, and not having plans for tonight, either—I needed to get a life, as Vonda was always saying—I drove out to Rothmere half an hour later to get the lay of the land. Remembering field trip high jinks during my senior year, not all that long ago, I wanted to be one step ahead of the teenagers I was going to be responsible for.

  St. Elizabeth sits in the crook of a backward L bordered by the St. Andrew Sound to the east and by the Satilla River to the north. Being surrounded by all that water is partly why St. Elizabethans get all worried about hurricanes; it’s the flooding more than the winds that we fear. Rothmere lies west of town, up the long arm of the L, and its acreage slopes down to the Satilla. The pure, white lines of the Greek revival building stood out against the cornflower blue of the sky—you’d never know there was a hurricane brewing—and the columns glistened as the sun’s slanting rays gilded them. Venerable magnolia and pecan trees provided pools of shade suitable for Southern belles to hold court in with their beaux gathered around, a la Scarlett O’Hara.

  Conscious that it was near closing time, I parked beside the aging Audi in the lot and trotted up the wide stone steps to the portico. Double doors of carved oak swung inward at a touch. A fiftyish woman with a long nose and protuberant eyes glided forward, her mid-1800s skirt swishing. The long-sleeved maroon dress with its tight bodice emphasized her stocky waist, but the sway of the skirt made her look graceful. A lacy white cap half covered frizzy brown hair pulled back into a bun. “Welcome to Rothmere,” she proclaimed.

  “Hi, Lucy,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s you.” A sour expression erased the gracious Southern hostess look she’d been wearing. Edging me out of the way, she stepped onto the portico, pulled the massive door closed, inserted a modern key into the lock, and shot the deadbolt home. She turned to face me, crossing her arms over her chest.