'Bout to Dye in Birmingham

By Beth Hamer Miles

From author Beth Hamer Miles comes a hilarious take on the worst year of your life...
It’s March 2020 in Birmingham, Alabama, but Maggie Baxter and her cousin Francis Pinkston are facing problems even bigger than the quarantine. While navigating her home health job, along with shutdowns, face masks, and toilet paper shortages, Maggie stumbles upon a dead man—snipped in the bud with his own set of monogrammed scissors!

It's a salon scheme gone south, and now, Maggie and Francis are in the midst of a murder investigation. Missing hair salon owners, disappearing patients, destructive raccoons...and why does everyone have purple hair? It’s a mystery fit for Shear-Lock Combs!

Can Maggie and Francis find a killer and survive 2020...or will this be their last bad hair day?

"Realistic dialogue, good character development and interesting setting. Looking forward to reading next one! 5 Stars!"
~ So Many Books

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Halliday Publishing
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215284827

Beth Hamer Miles

Beth Hamer Miles is the award-winning author of the Cousins Cozy Mysteries who hates writing her own bios. With the help of Artificial Intelligence, she learned that she climbed Mt. Everest twice, won the Hackney Literary Award and the Katherine Paterson Award, is a professional tightrope walker, a paratrooper, and a five-star chef. She was very excited to learn this about herself as she’s typically scared of heights and difficult recipes.Beth lives with her husband at sea level in the beautiful coastal town of Pawleys Island, SC where she writes stories about the South, works as a speech therapist, brags about their three adult kids, worries about alligators and sharks, takes photos of big trees, and asks her husband what he’s making for dinner.

Book preview

* * * * *

FREE EBOOK OFFER

Sign up for our newsletter to be the first to know about our new releases, special bargains, and giveaways, and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!

Sign up for the Gemma Halliday newsletter!

* * * * *

* * * * *

'BOUT TO DYE IN BIRMINGHAM

a Cousins Cozy Mystery

by

BETH HAMER MILES

* * * * *

Copyright © 2024 by Beth Hamer Miles

Cover design by Mariah Sinclair

http://www.mariahsinclair.com

Published by Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

For Jonathan, my very own Sam

Acknowledgements:

Many thanks to Martha Hamer, Lollie Johnston, Jenny Taylor, Sally Mabie, Mary Blythe Chipman, Andie Andrews, Jill Rogers, and Theresa Pavesic for being early readers and providing valuable feedback. Special thanks to Holly Blackman, Jennifer Hudson, and Kelly Dyksterhouse for all the encouragement over the years. A huge shout-out goes to Donna Earnhardt and Kelli Holmes, my manuscript midwives who cheered me on. I’m forever grateful.

* * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

Oh Lord, y'all! They're closing the colleges!

When my cousin, Francis Pinkston, burst in through the back door and flung himself into the kitchen, the news announcers were rattling off lists of universities that were sending students home. Things were not looking good, but dinner was almost ready. Even when times were stressful, you still had to eat.

Francis looked up at us, clutching his forehead in both hands. My husband Sam and I were taller than average people, and Francis was a slightly tubby 4'9", so he had to tilt his head back a few inches. His eyes were doing that bulging thing they did when he got overwrought.

What's up, Francis? asked our son Evan. As a perpetually starving high school junior, Evan had been known to start eating before he even sat down. Sure enough, he reached for the scalloped potatoes when his backside was still a good eight inches away from the chair. I moved them out of his reach. It looked like we'd be setting another place before we got started.

They announced it this afternoon! Francis let go of his head and grasped the edge of the kitchen table. He swayed on his feet, and a shock of white hair flopped across his forehead. What in the world are we in for?

Sam moseyed over to the table carrying a bowl of green beans. Oh, you know, the usual pandemic stuff… He put the bowl in the center of the table and avoided my glare. Sam knew good and well how high-strung Francis was, but he found his histrionics entertaining and tended to egg them on. Pandemonium, chaos, every man for himself. He shrugged and adjusted his glasses with his index finger. Maybe we'll even have a little anarchy.

Hush, Sam, I said, swatting him with a dishtowel. I turned to Francis, who was now pacing back and forth to the refrigerator. Have a seat and calm down, I told him. I set a place for him and poured another glass of tea. It gave Francis a calming level of satisfaction when everything was just a little extra, so I sent Evan to pick a mint leaf from the peppermint plant that was wintering in the sunroom. There's no need to lose our minds yet, I said. Let's just see how things play out. We haven't even heard from either of the girls, although… I looked at my watch. They really need to check in. Our twin daughters were college students, each in different states. I knew that calling and asking questions before they knew what was going on would only stress them out.

Francis flopped into the chair, anguish fueling his every move. We know how it'll play out, Maggie! he cried. Look what's already happened in China and Italy, where people can't even come out of their houses! Evan brought a sprig of mint back, and I added it to the tea before handing the glass to Francis. He slurped an inch of liquid off the top like it might ease his alarm. Maybe it's the beginning of the end of the world, he exclaimed, ending the sentence on a dramatic high note as Sam and I pulled out our chairs and sat down.

At sixty, Francis Herbert Pinkston was ten years older than I was. Since he didn't have any siblings and all mine lived in North Carolina, we were as tight as first cousins can be. When Sam's job moved us to Birmingham, Alabama nine years ago, I'd officially become Francis's most local next-of-kin. He'd already claimed me as a pseudo-sister anyway during the summers when I was a kid and was sent to spend a few weeks with his family in Birmingham every year. Back then, I'd looked up to him, at least until I was in fifth grade and he was a sophomore at Auburn. At that point, we were eyeball to eyeball.

Typical of Francis not to let height bother his ego, though. He'd drive me all over the city in his tiny, orange MG convertible and tell me scandalous things about college life. Everyone waved, and I waved back like a beauty queen in a parade, even though I knew they were really waving at Francis. He was wildly popular around town, and not just because his daddy, Frank Pinkston Sr., was somebody important down at the steel mill. Francis had always been what's generally known as a hoot.

Sam pushed his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose and spooned a heaping mound of scalloped potatoes onto his plate. If it's the end of the world, I'm going off my diet, he said.

Hey, good idea, I said. Me, too.

If you're going off your diet, Evan said to Sam, can you start making pies again?

I'd put Sam's buttermilk pies up against any diner's or southern granny's pies in the Birmingham Metro area. He'd quit making them last October after deciding to lose thirty pounds. I didn't need buttermilk pies any more than I needed designer shoes to wear with my medical scrubs to work, but that didn't stop me from wanting them.

Absolutely, Sam said, stabbing a few green beans with his fork. If we're all gonna die, I'm making us pie. It's my new motto.

Francis thumped his tea glass down onto the placemat with horror and put his hands over his eyes. None of you are taking this seriously! he wailed. You're terrible, terrible people! Then, he peeked at Sam from between his fingers. Can you make me one, too?

Sam squinted as he chewed and considered it. Okay, he said, swallowing and pointing his fork at Francis. But only if you quit trying to talk Maggie into painting the dining room purple.

Francis's demeanor changed to suddenly calm, and he answered in the voice of someone negotiating a hostage situation. It's called Eggplant Royale, he said, and anyone with half an eye for color would see how fantastic it is.

Maybe at your fancy house it's fantastic, but we live in the suburbs, Sam said.

Francis sighed. Okay, fine, he mumbled.

They shook on it.

Then I made them both get up and wash their hands. It's the new CDC guidelines, I told them.

After dinner, Francis seemed more settled and drove home in his new, orange Mini Cooper. As a die-hard Auburn fan, his cars were always orange. He also seemed to like cars that complimented his stature, just like that song from the 70s, with its line about little bitty hands and feet and cars that go beep-beep-beep. I hadn't mentioned that thought to Sam, but he was probably already thinking it. If one of us said it out loud, we might be more apt to start humming it unintentionally at an inopportune time. Sam figured Francis already had a tiny orange casket picked out and paid for somewhere in Birmingham.

I've got to firm up tomorrow's schedule, I told Sam and Evan, leaving them to load the dishwasher. It was officially still part of my workday to get on the phone and set up all my patients' appointments with me for the next day. The best part was that it got me off kitchen duty. The worst part was that I was already worn out after going in and out of people's houses since morning.

As a home health speech therapist, I put about two hundred miles a week on my little Mazda driving all over Jefferson County, Alabama. Even though it was exhausting, I found it more interesting than a job where you sat in the same room all day. If I were being totally honest, I'd have to admit I was also a little nosy. If you've ever passed a formal mansion or a run-down shack and wondered how the people inside really lived, home health might be the career for you.

What kept things the most interesting was that you never knew what surprises you'd find, which was likely not great for my blood pressure, but excellent for alleviating monotony. Medical emergencies and guns were the scariest. Sometimes though, it was just naked people, snarling chihuahuas, or the gift of a dozen eggs, fresh from the same hen who tried to get in your car with you as you were leaving. You might arrive to find your patient's relative inexplicably in their underwear while chopping vegetables to put in a pasta salad, or flapping a fly swatter after a dachshund who's running amuck with a stolen Danish. Once, I saw a rat dive-bomb an open box of Frosted Flakes from a window ledge. Another time, an Oscar-winning actress told me I had beautiful teeth, and she didn't even have dementia.

On the other hand, some things never changed. At every house, no matter who lived there, there was a seventy-five percent chance that The Price is Right, Gunsmoke, or Law and Order was on at a loud volume.

I went into the living room, settled on the couch with my calendar, and called Mr. Weaver, the first on my list. I'd been seeing him for about a month now, and we had an easy rapport.

Well, you'll never guess what, Maggie, he said when he answered. I ate them stewed pears my sister brought over this afternoon, and my bowels just opened right up.

Well, that's wonderful, Mr. Weaver, I told him. I know you feel better. How about I see you around eight thirty tomorrow morning?

Let's make it nine. I'll be able to sleep in now that I ain't blocked up anymore.

There was no way I could ever use the speaker phone. For one thing, there were HIPAA guidelines and patient privacy rights to consider. And then there was the Golden Rule. If I get blocked up one day and want to tell my health care professional about it over the phone, I'd hate to imagine their spouse listening in and having to wipe tears of laughter away before they can finish scrubbing the frying pan.

Before bed, Sam and I sat in the den and watched the news. The novel coronavirus which caused an illness called COVID-19 was on the rise all over the world. So was the death toll. Hospitals were becoming overrun and depleted of resources. Cases were increasing in the United States. Now, dorms on college campuses were being closed with the possibility of having to be used as makeshift hospitals. The girls had called, and we'd reassured them the best we could as they'd started packing their things. I shuddered and looked over at Sam.

For once, he didn't make a joke. It's about to get real, he said.

Except for the scary news on the radio in my car, the next day felt like a normal Friday. After seeing my last patient late that afternoon, I set my GPS to the address for Lula's Locks. Today was my very first hair appointment with Lula herself.

Lula Medlin was the daughter of one of my favorite patients, Mrs. Castinelli, who was what we call a frequent flyer in the home health business. Every few months, she'd have a mild setback and wind up as a patient for a while. Even though she'd had several strokes, which slowed her speech, Mrs. Castinelli still managed to be a loud Italian lady and dispense gentle, motherly wisdom simultaneously. Back in mid-February, after one of our therapy sessions, she'd gently dispensed wisdom on how maybe I should consider getting a professional to start handling my hair color. Women of a certain age should pamper themselves. Dark hair can age you, you know, she said.

I did, in fact, know. Two days earlier, I'd left the box of L'Oréal Paris Superior Preference Fade Defying Medium Chestnut Brown, level 5C on my head for an extra half hour to make sure it covered my gray. Unfortunately, it had covered it all the way to Walnut Black. I'd scrubbed in two cups of baking soda to try and remove some of the color, and my scalp was still tingling.

You give my Lula a call. She'll brighten you right up, Mrs. Castinelli had told me, pulling a business card out of the depths of the cloth pouch on the side of her walker. Lula's Locks had an address in Hueytown, which was on the western side of Birmingham. It was quite a drive from my house.

But…I've always done it myself, I said, touching my bangs self-consciously as I sat at Mrs. Castinelli's dining room table. I've always tried to be thrifty.

Thrifty is for the young, she said, patting my arm. You've earned it now.

If I'd been the type to take offense, it was there for the taking, but Mrs. Castinelli was a peach and I trusted her. Also, she had fantastic hair for a ninety-three-year-old. I thanked her for the advice and called Lula's Locks the next day.

Lula was Mrs. Castinelli's primary caregiver and stayed with her mother at night, but I'd never met her in person because she was always at work when I was at their house. Mrs. Castinelli had mentioned several times how Lula's business was booming, and sure enough, I'd had to wait 30 days to get an appointment. The first opening had been March the thirteenth. Friday the thirteenth, 2020 to be exact. In retrospect, being superstitious likely has more merit than I'd originally given it.

My anticipation grew as I followed the GPS's pleasant voice down Warrior River Road, where the houses became fewer and the cows increased in number. Mrs. Castinelli was right. I was too…mature for boxed dye. It was time for a change. I wondered if Lula could turn me into a blonde!

It felt good to be done with work for the week. The girls would be home Sunday, and we'd have a full nest again. Wouldn't they be surprised when they saw my new look? It was a perfect time for some pampering, just before life as we knew it was taking a shift.

You have arrived, said the GPS. As my work associate, the GPS saved me lots of headaches and got me out of logistical predicaments daily. The least she deserved was a name, so I called her Gladys, as in Gladys the Professional Speaker.

I have? I questioned Gladys's wisdom often, even though she's usually right. It was lonely in the car all day.

I was on a two-lane road in a thickly wooded area, and daylight was waning. There were no buildings in sight. I slowed, and that's when I saw the dirt road to the left. Wisteria vines curled through the trees overhead that were just sprouting the tiny green buds of mid-March. A squat wooden sign stood at the shoulder of the road, blending in with the tree trunks. Lula's Locks was burned into it with fancy lettering. It was quaint but almost totally camouflaged by its woodsy surroundings. I took a left and headed through the trees.

Due to my job, my little Mazda was familiar with dirt roads in Alabama. Her shocks and struts were going fast, squeaking and chirping over every speed bump and pothole, even though I kept shelling out good money to have them fixed. Like Gladys, the Mazda also had a name. I'd learned about it at dinner a few months ago, when Evan had blurted, When I get my license, are you gonna get a new car and make me drive Dolphina to school?

Sam and I had blinked at him. What's Dolphina? I asked.

Your car, Evan said, turning pink. Why does it have to sound like a dolphin in mating season?

Besides wondering why he had speculated on what mating dolphins sounded like, I was sorry he'd been embarrassed of my car, but then again, a little humility was sometimes good for the teenage soul. That's when I realized that my primary work associate had remained nameless all these years. She might not be the prettiest or quietest vehicle I'd ever owned, but as my office on wheels, we'd been through a lot together. Dolphina it was.

The dirt road rounded to the left, and I bounced through a rut and slid a bit in the gravel. The vines made a canopy over the open space of the road, framing my view of the curving path like lacy edging. I pictured it in the early morning with the sun shining through the leaves, dappling the road with bright spots under the shady, cool trees. I leaned forward and looked up, wondering if there were wild muscadine vines up there entangled with the wisteria.

And that's when I almost ran over the body.

CHAPTER TWO

I was sorry to say, I'd been known to have an atypical reaction in emergency situations. It seemed to happen because my brain gets out of whack with my body during the flight-or-fight response. For example, a normal reaction to riding up to a large, nude man splayed out in the center of a dirt road in the middle of the woods would be to slam on the brakes. My brain said, slam, slam, SLAM ALREADY, so I did, except instead of slamming the brake with my foot, I slammed my hand on the horn. MEEEEEEEEEP, yodeled Dolphina, as if she were highly offended that the man was lying in her path. The noise brought me to my senses, and I managed to stop just as Dolphina's front bumper came within a few inches of the man's pale, bloated stomach.

While she was still squeaking and rocking back and forth from the sudden cessation of motion, I rolled down the window. Hello? I called. Are you okay? Maybe he was intoxicated and had wandered out of the house before he'd gotten dressed. Just be drunk, just be drunk, I mentally pleaded with him, tentatively opening the door. The motor was still running as I eased around the front of the car.

Now would be a good time to mention that the big man in the road was not only unclothed, but he also had purple hair. And a purple goatee. I didn't check to see if any other hairy areas were purple. That's mostly because the rest of his prominent body hair was on the other side of the mound of his stomach and wasn't in direct view. Still, I didn't make any extra effort to look.

It was hard to say what was more shocking: the excessive amounts of naked flesh, the neatly cut yet odd-colored hair, or the fact that the murder weapon was still lodged in the front of the man's neck. He appeared to be staring up at the wisteria after waking from a peaceful little nap in the gravel. His face gave the initial impression of being quite handsome, but being dead and naked ruined the effect.

Just like Sam had done while I was giving birth, I only hovered around his head, took note of the blood, and backed away to sit back down on the edge of the seat and put my head between my knees. Then, I came to my senses, slammed the door, and threw the car in reverse. I backed out going about 40 miles an hour until I got to the main road.

That's when I pulled over and called the police.

9-1-1, what's your emergency? asked a calm woman.

"I just found a dead guy!" I yelled.

Okay, ma'am. Where are you?

I tried to explain that I was somewhere off Warrior River Road and babbled a bit about Lula's Locks. I told her how I'd found the body.

And you're sure he was dead? she asked.

"His eyes were open. He wasn't breathing. And