“What’s going on?” Bixby interrupted, justifiably curious.
“My father and his new wife have disappeared, and we’re all trying to find them,” Rosalie said.
“And we’re trying to find out if that dead guy in Brett’s trunk had anything to do with it,” Bitsy piped up, eager to dispense as much information as she could. She couldn’t help herself.
“A dead body in your trunk?” Colin Bixby was legitimately confused.
“She found it yesterday,” Bitsy explained. “Sylvia and Bernie borrowed her car for their wedding, and then they brought it back to her, and then Brett went for a hike and found the dead Dean Martin impersonator in the trunk. With a dead rat,” she added.
Rosalie tensed up. “A dead rat?” Obviously, Jeff hadn’t told her about that.
“A dead Dean Martin impersonator?” Colin Bixby was having a really hard time wrapping his head around this. Admittedly, it wasn’t exactly something you heard every day, so I could cut him some slack.
“Because of the rat, you think Dan was involved?” Rosalie asked.
I nodded.
“How well do you know Dan Franklin?” Bitsy piped up.
Rosalie looked at her. “He’s a nice guy. He loves his job here, and he loves singing at the chapel. Lou did tell me no one over at the chapel has seen him. He thinks whoever killed Ray got to Dan, too. Until now, I thought that was a little crazy, but now I don’t know.” She paused. “Do you know Lou got mugged?”
I nodded. “Will Parker told me.”
“Will?” Rosalie asked. “When did you meet Will?”
“This morning,” I said, and since I didn’t want to explain how, I quickly added, “He said someone tried to run him down. Who would want to hurt those guys? What’s the motive?”
She bit her lip, and her cheeks grew pink as she mulled the question. Then, “All you have to do is look across the street at that other chapel. Sanderson’s been trying to put Tony out of business for years now.”
Interesting theory, but a little weak.
“So there wasn’t a beef between any of the Dean Martins?” I asked. “Will Parker said the trouble started when Ray Lucci started working there.”
For the first time, Rosalie’s eyes skittered across the room and landed on Bixby’s face. “I don’t know anything about that,” she said, but I could tell she was lying.
“How’s your husband doing?” I asked.
Her hand went up to caress her other arm, over the spot where I knew the tattoos were. The bruise around her eye was fading, and I wondered whether another one would soon replace it. I’d never met Lou Marino, but I didn’t think I wanted to.
“He’s been talking to Sanderson about a job over there,” she said.
So he’d allow himself to be coerced, if in fact Sanderson was the one causing all the accidents.
Rosalie glanced around the room, saying, “I really have to get back . . .”
“We’ll get out of your way now,” Bixby said, taking my arm.
I resisted the urge to shrug him off, but I had to ask one more question.
“What do you do here? Are you a technician, like Dan?”
Rosalie seemed to relax now that I wasn’t asking about Lou. She nodded. “That’s right.”
“How long has Dan worked here?”
“About three years, I think.”
“How did Dan Franklin end up working at the chapel?”
Rosalie smiled. “He’s always wanted to perform. I told Lou about him, and Lou got him the job over there.”
“So they’re friends?”
The smile faded slightly, but she fought hard not to let it go completely. “I suppose,” she said softly.
That was enough for Bixby. He started steering me out, his other hand on Bitsy’s shoulder. “Thank you for your help,” he said, as if he was the one who wanted it in the first place.
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything about your dad,” I tossed back as we left the room.
Bixby didn’t say anything until we were behind closed doors.
“I can’t believe you lied to me,” he said.
“I didn’t completely lie,” I said. “I did talk to Dan Franklin, but he wasn’t the one with the tattoo. The dead guy in my trunk? He came to my shop posing as Dan Franklin. And then we found out Franklin went missing and his phone’s disconnected.”
“I can’t believe the things you get into.”
Him and me both.
But if I admitted that, he wouldn’t believe me.
The elevator door slid open, and we stepped out. Bixby crossed his arms over his chest.
“Do you have everything you need?” he asked.
Who ever has everything they need? I wanted to ask. And looking at him, I thought maybe I wanted a second chance, needed a second chance.
I took too long to answer.
He sighed and looked down at Bitsy. “Nice seeing you again,” he said.
“Thanks, Doc.” She grinned.
He started to walk away, then stopped and stared at me. “You know, I’d just about forgotten about you,” he said softly before he turned his back on me and went down the hall.
I felt a slap on my wrist and looked down to see Bitsy making a face at me.
“You can daydream about him later,” she admonished. “We’ve got to get out of here. All those rodents gave me the creeps.”
We walked around the atrium and out the glass front doors. The sun beat down on the sidewalk, but it wasn’t hot. There was a slight chill in the air, and I wished I had my jean jacket with me.
“Maybe it’ll snow tonight,” Bitsy teased.
“It’s snowed here before.”
“For like a nanosecond. One day, like three years ago.”
It had been more recent than that, but I couldn’t remember when. I didn’t really want to argue it.
We maneuvered around the cars in the parking lot, and I spotted the Jeep up ahead.
But before I could point it out, a blue car swung around the bank of cars, skidding on the pavement as it careened toward us.
Chapter 23
I grabbed Bitsy’s arm and yanked her out of the way as I dove onto the hood of a Dodge that had seen better days. The blue car screamed past, and I looked up too late. All I saw was a shadow of the back of a head in the rearview mirror as the car sped away.
I thought about how someone had used my car to try to run down Will Parker. But I wasn’t a Dean Martin impersonator.
But then my memory flashed on something else. A blue car. The one in Dan Franklin’s driveway. Had Franklin really been home after all, hiding out and watching me and Jeff? Had he followed me?
I slid off the hood and brushed dirt off my skirt as I asked Bitsy, “Are you okay?”
She had flattened herself against the Dodge’s grill.
“It was close enough so I could feel it,” she whispered. All color had drained from her face. “Did you see who it was?”
“No.”
“Did you get the license plate?”
“It went by so fast it was a blur. I didn’t notice the number.”
As Bitsy brushed at her slacks, I could see her hands were shaking. “Why would someone do that?” she asked.
Why, indeed? Because we’d been questioning Rosalie about Dan Franklin? Because I’d been asking everyone about Dan Franklin? Because I’d almost broken into his house? Because Jeff Coleman and I had stolen his bank statement out of his mailbox?
“Who knew we were coming here?” Bitsy asked.
“Colin was the only one who knew, and we ran into him here,” I said.
“Maybe he called someone after he left us,” Bitsy suggested, and her eyes grew wider. “Maybe he was the one driving that car.”
“Oh, give me a break. That’s ridiculous.”
“He’s still really upset with you,” she reminded me.
“But enough to try to run me down? No, this has to have something to do with Dan Franklin. Bixby was a coincidence.”
That’s right. She doesn’t. And I usually don’t, either. But I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice: think that Dr. Colin Bixby was out to kill me. In retrospect, it didn’t make sense the first time, and it didn’t make sense now.
And then I remembered another blue car. Will Parker’s blue car. The one he wanted to whisk me away in.
Had that been Will Parker? Had he found out that it was my car someone used to try to run him down, so he was reciprocating?
“Will Parker drives a blue car,” I said softly.
Bitsy whirled around on her toes. “Aha! Like I said, no coincidences. What did you do to him?”
“What do you mean, what did I do to him? Nothing. He’s coming in for a tattoo touch-up. He seems like a nice guy.”
A nice guy who just happened to have an appointment at the Venetian a couple hours after I met him at the wedding chapel. Who just happened to decide to come talk to me. Did he really have an appointment, or was he stalking me? Did he follow us here?
No, it was more likely Franklin. Although I couldn’t seem to get Parker out of my head, either.
There were too many blue cars. And too many weird things going on. I wished I’d gotten the license plate. Then we could narrow this down.
We began walking to the Jeep, our eyes skirting the parking lot, making sure that blue car didn’t come back. When we got to the Jeep, we scrambled up inside, strapping the seat belts across us. I put the engine in first gear as we went toward the lot’s exit.
Bitsy’s feet weren’t touching the floor, so she pulled her legs up and tucked them under her.
“What’s the game plan?” she asked.
“I think we should talk to the cops.”
She snorted. “About what? That a grown man hasn’t been to either of his jobs in a couple days? That he hasn’t been home? The cops won’t take us seriously. They’ll say, Maybe he’s holed up in a casino somewhere, losing all his money. Not like that hasn’t happened around here.”
“You’ve proved my point. We don’t have to go running around after Dan Franklin. Someone tried to run us over.” The light turned green, and I lifted my foot off the clutch and gave the Jeep some gas. “I think that was a definite signal that we should stop snooping around.”
“You like snooping.”
“Not when someone tries to kill me.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “That means we’re close.”
“Close to what?”
“Finding out who the murderer is.”
“And you’re suddenly Jessica Fletcher?”
She smoothed out the front of her shirt and grinned. “I love Angela Lansbury.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh, I know. You’re scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“To find out what’s going on. The police will say that Dan Franklin’s a grown-up and they won’t bother looking for him. But he did have a dead rat, which means that maybe there was something going on, something that does need to be investigated.”
“But that’s what the police are for.” I pulled into the parking garage at the Venetian. Our conversation was going in circles, as we were, heading up to the sixth level. I eased into a parking spot, and we both climbed out. I locked the doors, and we headed to the elevator.
We were both quiet, and I knew she was thinking about this crazy mess, too.
We walked along the canal, the gondolas passing, music emanating from the square. I wondered whether Will Parker had gotten the job.
“Earth to Brett.” Bitsy snapped her fingers up near my chin somewhere. That was as far as she could stretch.
Ace was sitting at Breathe, the oxygen bar, a tube up his nose. It seemed a tad unsanitary, but who was I to bring that up?
I tapped him on the shoulder, and he opened his eyes, smiling. “Oh, hello.”
“Hello yourself. Who’s at the shop?”
He looked from me to Bitsy, then shrugged. “Joel.”
“Is it time for you to go back?”
Ace sat up a little straighter and made a face at me. “You’ve been gone ages. I just finished a tattoo. I need a break.” And he leaned back and closed his eyes again.
Bitsy and I started toward the shop. It wasn’t worth getting into. He was right. I had been gone too long, and it was time for me to shoulder my responsibilities.
Joel was at the front desk, tapping his fingers on the sleek mahogany to the stylings of Lady Gaga, his new latest favorite singer. I wasn’t so sure about his musical inclinations, but if I had my way, we’d have Springsteen all day, every day.
“Hey there,” he said, looking up.
“Thanks for holding down the fort,” I said, slinging my messenger bag on the floor.
Bitsy walked around and picked the bag up with one finger, handing it back to me. “Staff room.”
“Right.” Bitsy had rules about keeping order.
Joel put both hands on the desk and heaved himself up. Despite his Atkins loss, there was still a bit of weight to deal with.
Bitsy slid into the chair, her feet dangling. She looked up at Joel, a scowl on her face. “Didn’t anyone answer the phones while we were gone?”
Joel sighed. “Ace and I both had clients. The phone rang once, but I couldn’t run out, and I guess Ace couldn’t either.”
“What would’ve happened if someone came in?” she asked.
Joel shrugged. “The buzzer would’ve sounded and I would’ve gone out to see who it was. No one came in,” he added defiantly.
The phone was blinking with one message. Bitsy hit the button.
The voice bounced off the wall behind us.
“This is Dan Franklin. You have to stop looking for me. I’m fine. Leave Rosalie out of it.” And then the message ended.
Chapter 24
“Check the number,”I told Bitsy,who was one step ahead of me.
She shook her head. “Restricted,” she said, checking the readout. “What’s the point in caller ID if you can’t get the caller’s ID?”
My question exactly.
“Maybe it was Dan Franklin in that blue car and not Will Parker,” Bitsy said.
“But then why would he call us?”
“To make sure we got the message?”
Joel was scratching his head. “I have no idea what you two are talking about.”
That was fine with me. The fewer people who knew what we’d been up to, the better. But Bitsy didn’t seem to mind.
“Brett and I went over to the university to find out about this guy Dan Franklin and what his story is.”
Joel chuckled. “I can see you now: Cagney and Lacey.”
Bitsy ignored him. “And we met up with Colin Bixby and a lab tech who’s got a husband who beats her and happens to be a Dean Martin impersonator.”
“You know about Rosalie and the abuse?” I asked.
Bitsy rolled her eyes at me. “I remember her. Domestic-violence ribbons on her biceps. But I didn’t remember her name.”
As I hadn’t when I saw her at Jeff’s.
Joel was a few sentences behind. “Colin Bixby? As in the Colin Bixby?”
I sighed. “Yes, Joel, Colin Bixby.”
“Is he still hot?”
Before I could answer, Bitsy said, “He looks better than I remember. What do you think, Brett?”
I thought again about Colin Bixby and his clear green eyes and almost-punk look. Give him some guyliner and an eyebrow piercing, and there’s no telling what I’d do.
“He’s still okay,” I said, trying to sound casual.
Joel laughed. “What about this Dean Martin impersonator? Who rates better?”
“I don’t think rating them is fair,” I started, but Bitsy interrupted.
“The good doctor, hands down. I mean, at least he has a steady job, a good income. This Will Parker—Well, Brett, I’m sorry, but he’s another actor, and you’ve already had one of those, and see how that turned out.�
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Bitsy didn’t have to remind me about Paul Fogarty, my onetime fiancé, an actor on Broadway in Manhattan, whose whole life was consumed by his work. So much so that he felt compelled to belittle my career. There had been enough time between then and now for me to do some self-analysis, and I’d realized Paul’s insecurities. But it wasn’t enough for me to try to contact him after fleeing across the country to shed his abuse.
However, Bitsy’s words brought out the contrarian in me.
“At least Will Parker doesn’t live down the hall from his mother,” I said haughtily.
“How do you know that? Have you Googled him? Have you been to his house? Maybe he lives with his mother.”
Bitsy’s words rang true. I had no clue about anything regarding Will Parker except his job and that he was sexy. And he had a blue car.
“Touché.”
“Hungry, anyone?” Joel looked hopefully from me to Bitsy.
Bitsy shook her head. “Ace has a client coming in any moment, and you two”—she looked in the appointment book—“have clients in about half an hour.”
Joel grinned at me. “Just enough time to pick up Johnny Rockets burgers.”
I was getting really tired of burgers.
Walking past the pricey high-end shops away from the canal, I stopped in front of one window, admiring a floppy straw hat I could totally see myself wearing if I ever went back to the Jersey Shore for a vacation. I’d never be caught dead in it here.
“Not you,” Joel said flatly, noticing the hat.
“Great beach hat,” I said.
“Not you,” he said again. “You’re not a hat person.”
“How do you know? Have you ever seen me in a hat?”
He studied my face and head for a second, then grinned. “Have you ever once worn a hat so I could find out?” he asked, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the store.
It was full of hats. Everywhere. And Joel started plopping them on my head one by one and announcing, “No, no, no,” for each.
I personally liked a small black one that perched on the back of my head, with a netting over my forehead and eyes, like they wore in the forties and fifties. For a second, Joel was starting to agree but then pulled it off my head and said, “You look like a gangster’s moll.”
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