Pretty In Ink

by Karen Olson

  “What does that mean?”

  “That’s what I asked. He wouldn’t say any more than that, but I’d watch your back, Kavanaugh.”

  I was quiet a second, digesting this information.

  “Do you want me to come over there, follow you to your house, make sure you get there okay?” Jeff’s voice was unnaturally soft, and the fact that he was offering made me take this a lot more seriously. He must really think the guy was a nut and could cause me some sort of trouble.

  Accidents happen.

  I heard Joel’s and Ace’s tattoo machines whirring in harmony in their rooms.

  “No, Jeff. Thanks, I really appreciate it, but I can have Joel or Ace do that. You don’t have to leave your shop and come down here.”

  “Wouldn’t be a problem, Kavanaugh.”

  I thought about Jeff Coleman, how he called me only by my last name, like he was some sort of tough guy, and how he always made cracks about my “upscale” shop.

  “Thanks, Jeff, really,” I said, hoping he could hear the gratitude in my voice.

  I could hear a smile in his. “You know, Kavanaugh, I think I’m growing on you.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to respond. I heard the dial tone and hung up the phone, pondering what he’d said. Not about him growing on me—the jury was still out on that one—but about Rusty Abbott. What was his game? Even though he told Jeff that meeting up with me was just a coincidence, in a completely paranoid moment, I wondered whether he’d actually set me up. If he were the champagne shooter from last night, maybe he was following me around to make sure that I couldn’t identify him.

  I was being totally irrational.

  Or was I?

  I was so deep in thought that when Ace’s client came up behind me, I jumped.

  “You scared me,” I said, holding my hand to my chest to see if I could make it stop thumping so hard.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he said with a lopsided grin.

  Bitsy had come back and was taking his credit card. I wandered over to Ace’s room, where he was cleaning up his inks. He looked up when I came in and sat on his client chair.

  “Hey, Brett,” he said casually, as if it were like any other day.

  “Where’s Charlotte?”

  He stopped fiddling with the inkpots and shrugged. “She called some friend who came and picked her up at my place. I don’t know who he was—he stayed in the car—but she said she’d be okay.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “She’s a big girl, Brett.”

  “Did she get my message about Trevor?”

  “That’s why I made her call someone. I had to be back here, and I didn’t want her to be alone. She was pretty broken up about it.”

  “But not enough to come out of hiding.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “What’s going on? Why is she in hiding? Was it that guy at the pawnshop? Has he threatened her? Is it an old boyfriend? Is that who she’s hiding from?” I couldn’t stop the questions once they started coming out.

  He bit his lip and shrugged. “She hasn’t really told me anything, except that it’s not what it seems. Said I just have to trust her. So that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Not what it seems? That’s pretty evasive. She has to talk to the police.”

  Ace shook his head. “No cops. She’s pretty adamant about that. Says it’ll all come out eventually, and she wants it on her terms.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He sighed. “I’m not totally sure, Brett. Believe me, I tried to get her to go to the cops. Tell them what really happened this morning at that pawnshop. But she won’t. I can’t force her.”

  “What about Tim?”

  He gave a short snort. “He’s the cops, Brett. No cops.”

  “Should I talk to him for her?”

  He went back to putting away the inks. “Whatever you want.”

  “When did you and Charlotte get so chummy?” I asked.

  I could see only the side of his face, but the smile was obvious. It was as if someone hit me over the head; otherwise, I would never have figured it out.

  “You’re dating her, aren’t you? Why are you keeping it secret?”

  He shrugged and looked back at me. “We didn’t want anyone to know. The whole ‘office romance’ thing is so clichéd.” He made little quote marks with his fingers as he spoke.

  I could understand that. “Listen, then, you really do need to convince her that going to the cops is the best thing. If she needs some sort of protection, then it’s for her own good.”

  “I think she knows what she’s doing.”

  “Does she?” I asked. “Do you? You could be charged with obstruction for hiding her.” I was repeating what DeBurra had said to me, and I didn’t catch myself in time to stop.

  “Don’t pull that cop talk on me, Brett. I know what I’m doing, too. And not for nothing, but when she’s ready to tell me what’s going on, she’ll tell me. I’m being patient with her. I’m not going to bug her about it.” He really turned his back on me now, dismissing me.

  It felt like I had a hundred-pound weight on my chest. I was just trying to do the right thing and help the girl. Sister Mary Eucharista had taught me well. But she didn’t tell me how to do the right thing when no one else was cooperating.

  Joel agreed to follow me home to make sure I got there okay. Ace and I didn’t talk for the rest of the night, and I let Bitsy go early because she had a date.

  I had a million things swirling around in my head: Rusty Abbott warning me about accidents, the toothless guy at Pawned, Charlotte and Ace and their discreet romance, Trevor’s untimely demise, Dr. Colin Bixby. The latter was the most pleasant place for my thoughts to hang their hat, but even he got pushed aside when I flashed back on that sketch of Wesley Lambert. What role did he have?

  My cell phone rang. I had it hooked up to my hands-free device.

  “Want to stop for a bite?” Joel’s voice came through loudly.

  “I just want to get home.”

  “You wouldn’t know that by the way you’re driving.”

  So I went the speed limit. Sue me.

  “You know, if anyone wanted to follow you, it would be so easy,” Joel continued.

  “You must be hungry. You’re grumpy.”

  “Come on, stop for something. There’s a little Mexican place not far off the exit.”

  I knew it. And the power of suggestion had my stomach growling. The noodles were a few hours ago. “Sure, fine.”

  “Nachos,” he said, drawing the word out.

  I was also thinking margaritas. That would be a nice way to top off the day. So I mentioned it.

  “Way too many calories,” Joel said. “I’ll go through a week’s worth of points.”

  “And nachos are fat free? Give me a break.”

  I pulled off the highway and turned off the exit.

  “It’s just up there,” Joel said when the strip mall came into view.

  “I see it.”

  I ended the call and threw the hands-free unit on the passenger seat as I pulled into the parking lot. The lights were still on, the neon advertising Corona beer.

  But as I was about to get out, a glance in the sideview mirror made me freeze.

  Detective Frank DeBurra was walking up to my door.

  I lowered the window, waiting for DeBurra like he was going to ask for my license and registration. Joel had already gone inside, not noticing I wasn’t behind him.

  Some bodyguard he turned out to be.

  “Miss Kavanaugh, can you get out of the car?” DeBurra’s voice was low, measured.

  “What, was I speeding or something? Am I under arrest?” I should know better than to question a cop. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know how to behave with one. But DeBurra got my hackles up.

  “Just get out of the car, please.” His tone was laced with exasperation.

  I had that effect on some people.

  I opened the door and climbed out, smoothing my skirt, pulling down on my tank top, which had started to ride up over my abdomen.

  “Are you following me?” I asked. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have
asked Joel to come along. DeBurra would’ve been my shield against Rusty Abbott.

  “Have you heard from Miss Sampson?”

  That old song and dance. Should’ve known.

  “I’m going in for some nachos now. I haven’t seen Charlotte all day. I have no idea where she is.” None of what I said was a lie.

  “Her friend Trevor McKay is dead.” It sounded even more final the way he said it.

  “I know,” I said.

  “I know you know. You were at the hospital. You spoke to Dr. Bixby.”

  I shifted a little. “Yeah. I wanted to see how Trevor was. But he was dead before I got there.” I added that last part in case he thought I had something to do with Trevor’s demise.

  “And you went to two pawnshops.”

  I tried to keep my anger out of my voice. “Have you been following me all day?”

  “What’s your relationship with Jeff Coleman?”

  This had gone on far enough.

  “I’d love to stand here and play This Is Your Life, Detective, but my friend is in the restaurant and I really want a margarita right now. Unless you’re going to charge me with something, then I’m going inside.” I started walking even as I spoke.

  DeBurra fell into step beside me. “I can arrest you—for obstruction. But I won’t.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” I said, the attitude slipping out because I was unable to stop it.

  “I think you’ve had contact with Charlotte Sampson today. And I think you’re keeping it from me.”

  I stopped short and whirled around to face him. “You know, Charlotte’s the one who was threatened. It’s not as if she committed a crime or anything. You should be trying to find the guy who threatened her, not acting as if an innocent girl was guilty of something.”

  As I spoke, an expression crossed his face that I couldn’t read. I began to wonder whether she was guilty of something, regardless of what that pawnshop guy said. That would explain why she was hiding, why DeBurra was going after her like a dog after a bone.

  DeBurra gave a short snort. “So you don’t know where she is, do you?”

  I sighed. “No, I really don’t. I’m telling the truth. I did talk to her, but she won’t say where she is. I’m doing my best.”

  “Miss Kavanaugh, if you were doing your best, Charlotte Sampson would be turning herself in.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But there’s just so much I can do.”

  “It’s for her own good,” DeBurra said.

  “Like I don’t know that.”

  “No, really,” he said, his voice lower now, like he was going to tell me a secret.

  I leaned forward slightly to hear him better.

  “Charlotte Sampson got mixed up with the wrong people. Wesley Lambert, for one. And her life may be in danger.”

  Chapter 19

  First Wesley Lambert gets involved with the wrong people, and now Charlotte. What was Lambert involved in? If it was drugs, like Kyle suggested, how did Trevor’s brooch come into play? And then warning Eduardo that he’d send a message to Trevor. Sort of like how Rusty Abbott was warning me through Jeff.

  “I haven’t seen her,” I said again and pushed my way past DeBurra.

  I’d taken about three steps when I heard his voice behind me.

  “I’m going to be your shadow. She has to show up eventually.”

  That was going to be a royal pain. But I didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge that I’d even heard him. Instead I went inside and found Joel already chewing on chips and salsa at a table near the back. A margarita sat on the table.

  I slid into the chair across from Joel and took a sip. Smooth, tart, perfect. I smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  I told him about my close encounter of the irritating kind with Frank DeBurra. He murmured appropriately throughout.

  “What’s up with this guy Lambert? Is he a drug dealer or does he just deal in gaudy jewelry?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but I think he’s the guy in the pawnshop who threatened Charlotte.”

  “What does he want?”

  I had no idea.

  A waitress came over and set down a gigantic plate of nachos slathered in cheese and chili. Joel thanked her politely before taking a handful onto his plate. I suddenly wasn’t very hungry anymore, but I needed something in my stomach to soak up all that tequila; otherwise, the good detective who’d vowed to keep following me would have a legitimate excuse to pull me over on my way home.

  We ate in comfortable silence, my thoughts all over the place. I wondered whether I’d be able to get any sleep tonight with the activity going on in my brain.

  When the nachos were gone and the margarita glass drained, I opened my mouth to start up again, but Joel shook his head and put his fingers to his lips.

  “I’m worried about Charlotte, too, Brett, but I think Ace is taking care of her and you should just go home and get some sleep.”

  “What, does everyone know about Ace and Charlotte but me?”

  He chuckled. “Brett, they’ve been dating practically since Charlotte started working for us. You haven’t noticed how they moon at each other?”

  I thought about it. “No.”

  “You should pay more attention. They make a pretty couple.”

  That they did: Ace with his handsome, movie-star looks and Charlotte with her long, sleek dark hair, bright eyes, and pixie face. Each of them, too, had symmetrical tattoos—Ace had sleeves that ended in perfect matching fleur-de-lis, and Charlotte had those derringers.

  I just hoped that when all this was over I wasn’t going to lose one or even two of my employees.

  Joel gave me a kiss on the cheek before I got into my car to head home. I told him not to bother following me anymore, since I was sure DeBurra was out there somewhere. I arrived at my house in one piece; I hadn’t noticed anyone behind me. Maybe he was full of hot air.

  Tim was already asleep. I put on my cotton pajama bottoms and a big T-shirt, crawled into bed, and, despite my worries, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  I got up about nine. I missed Tim again; he had gone to work while I slept. We didn’t see each other very much, even though we were roommates. His job had odd hours, and mine kept me at the shop until midnight most nights. Every once in a while, like yesterday, our paths crossed.

  I’d hoped to talk to him again about DeBurra and tell him what had happened last night. I’d have to try to call him later. I wanted to know, too, whether he’d poked around about Wesley Lambert and if he’d found out anything about him.

  I brought my laptop into the kitchen—wireless Internet is a beautiful thing—and drank my coffee while I booted it up. I wanted to check out that Queen of Hearts Ball Kyle had told me about—the one where Trevor got that pin.

  The Queen of Hearts Ball was a fund-raiser held about a year ago to benefit an AIDS organization. Lester Fine had been there, as well as other celebrities and political luminaries. The organization had raised more than five million dollars at the event, which took place at the MGM, which happened to be right across the street from New York New York, where I’d had my gambling windfall. Not that that had anything to do with anything.

  The MGM used to have a Wizard of Oz theme going, with statues of Dorothy and her friends in the lobby. It also had an amusement park in the back, to try to lure families to Sin City.

  It didn’t work.

  Now the resort was sans roller coasters but boasted five pools, Joël Robuchon’s restaurant, Studio 54, and one of the ubiquitous Vegas Cirque du Soleil shows. The lobby was spacious, with a gilded lion standing sentry in a fountain of flowers under a gold-lit inverted dome that distorted its reflections like a funhouse mirror.

  Could be a cool place for a fund-raiser.

  I read through a couple of newspaper articles announcing the event, and a couple more that reported on it. Small, jeweled pins with the image of a queen-of-hearts playing card were handed out as giveaways.

  Since about five hundred people had attended, there were hundreds of those little suckers floating around.

  But
Trevor had one that was real. A gift from Lester Fine, according to him. What was up with that?

  I clicked on images and found plenty of pictures from the ball. A lot of sparkly evening gowns and tuxedos. Ah, there was Lester Fine, dashing in his tails. His acting career had started thirty years ago, when he was twenty. He starred in a political thriller that grossed more than anyone expected. Fine had played the bad guy.

  Another picture showed Fine with his arm around his wife, Alice. I knew their story. He’d married her before his first big hit; they were high school sweethearts. Hollywood praised their ability to keep it together when so many celebrity couples broke up.

  A closer look at Alice showed a fairly attractive middle-aged woman who’d had a little too much Botox. She had that perpetual look of surprise in each picture; it couldn’t be the flash every time. She was used to the limelight, hanging on Lester’s arm. She wore a bright blue babydoll dress that was about twenty years too young for her, and her obviously dyed blond hair was too long. Women her age shouldn’t try to hang on to their youth; it made them look older.

  I made a mental note to follow my own advice.

  A close-up of the couple showed each wearing a queen-of-hearts pin.

  I clicked on the next picture.

  MissTique was posing with Lester Fine, who looked decidedly uncomfortable. A little homophobic, perhaps?

  The next pictures were all of drag queens who’d performed at the ball. Britney Brassieres, Miranda Rites, Lola LaTuche, and Marva Luss had been together before MissTique brought them into Chez Tango. I had a small pang of sadness looking at Britney, aka Trevor McKay. He, or she, I suppose, looked like she was having the time of her life.

  And here was Britney with her arm around none other than Rusty Abbott.

  I still thought Rusty was pretty enough to do drag himself, but he was wearing a tuxedo and looking rather dashing. It was a lot better than the jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing at the roulette table.

  Thinking about Rusty Abbott prompted me to remember Jeff Coleman’s call about how Rusty warned that accidents happen. I jumped up and went to the front door to make sure Tim had locked it.

  I should have known better than to doubt Tim. The door was locked, as was the one that led out to the garage.