I sank down on the floor, dropping my case at my side, and put my head between my knees.
“What’s the problem?”
It was a baritone, with an English accent.
“She says there’s a body in the Marie Antoinette Suite,” I heard the footman whisper.
“Who are you?” I felt his breath on my cheek, and I looked up into deep brown eyes that twinkled at me.
“Brett Kavanaugh. The Painted Lady.”
His mouth quivered slightly, as if he wanted to smile but stopped himself in time. I felt myself get warm all over as his eyes now moved to my arm and then across my chest to the dragon’s head, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. In fact, just the opposite.
“Yes, Miss Kavanaugh, I see that. What were you doing in the Marie Antoinette Suite, and what did you see up there?”
I glanced behind him to see a crowd starting to form. I cocked my head and said, “Maybe we should just go up there and I can show you.”
His hand was under my elbow—sending a small electric shock through me that I told myself was just from the carpeting, but from the way he was looking at me, I wasn’t totally able to convince myself of that—and he gently helped me up, leaning down slightly to pick up my case with his other hand. “Let’s,” he said simply and nodded at the footman, who fetched the elevator for us.
Once inside and going up, my stomach doing more flip-flops, I noticed the stranger was slightly taller than I was and had a sort of rakish, Hugh Jackman look about him. His hair was blonder, streaked with natural highlights, brushed back to emphasize the angles of his face. I figured he was mid-thirties or so. He wore a navy suit with a red tie but carried it off better than the Young Republican I’d seen earlier.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He did smile then.
“Simon Chase. I’m the manager.”
“I thought everyone here had to be French.”
His eyebrows arched slightly. “It is a bit of a sacrilege to have an Englishman here, but Bruce Manning likes my résumé.”
“And I guess what Bruce Manning likes, Bruce Manning gets,” I said, happy to have a small distraction from what we were about to walk in on.
“Perhaps now that you know who I am, you can tell me why you’re here, Miss Kavanaugh.”
“I was here to give a guy a tattoo, but when I showed up, I didn’t see the guy I was supposed to see. Instead, I saw some other guy dead in the bathtub.”
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
“He didn’t look alive.” As I remembered, I took a deep breath and hoped I wouldn’t get woozy again.
The amusement disappeared off his face, and his mouth set in a grim line. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
I got the sense he didn’t believe me—like I would make something like that up—but before I could say anything further, the doors slid open and we were stepping back into the suite.
I smelled it then, the faint pungent scent that I hadn’t noticed the first time because I’d been too hopped up about my celebrity encounter. Simon Chase smelled it, too, and his nose wrinkled, leading him toward the bathroom. I followed, not only to make sure the body was there, like I’d said, but to keep an eye on my case, which he was still carrying.
Simon Chase turned at the door, his hand again taking my elbow and steering me back out into the living area. “I see what you mean.” He looked over at the footman, who was standing sentry at the elevator. “Please call nine-one-one. But we need to be discreet. Have them meet you at the loading dock entrance, and bring them up that way, please.”
The footman nodded and stepped backward into the elevator, the doors closing.
Simon Chase let go of me then, put my case on the floor, and sank down on the back of a plush sofa, facing me.
“So, Miss Kavanaugh, you were here for a job. To tattoo a gentleman. But not that gentleman in the loo?”
“No. Not him.” And I told him who was supposed to be the recipient of the Stones logo, without going into the intimate details of my assignment.
Simon Chase didn’t stop the smile this time, which spread from his lips up to his eyes. I was feeling slightly unnerved. It had been a long time since I’d felt an attraction like this, and if my radar was working properly—I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was—it seemed he was reciprocating.
“That particular guest left yesterday, Miss Kavanaugh. I find it difficult to believe he would arrange this, since he knew he would be leaving.”
My mind was racing. Again I wondered if Jeff had set me up. Then again, maybe he’d been set up. He was the one who was supposed to be here, not me. He had told me that he thought someone was framing him in Kelly’s death.
“I’m actually covering for someone else, another tattooist,” I admitted.
“So he’s the one who arranged this?” I could tell that he, too, wondered if I’d been set up.
“I really think he thought it was his client who called and made the appointment,” I said, surprising myself by defending Jeff. But my gut told me Jeff wouldn’t set me up like this, despite our tenuous relationship. Would he? Seemed my gut was a little ambivalent.
“Who’s in there?” I asked.
“So you really don’t know?”
“No. Is it a big secret?”
“I suppose not.” Simon Chase got up and walked around to the window, his back to me for a second before he turned to face me.
“His name is Matt Powell. He’s Chip Manning’s driver.”
Chapter 19
Before I could react, a loud cacophony of cheering swept through the window from somewhere below. I must have looked puzzled, because Simon Chase beckoned me over.
A crowd of what looked like French peasants was racing toward the front of the building. If I wasn’t mistaken, they were waving sticks of French bread.
“What is it?” I asked.
“They’re storming the Bastille. Every afternoon at three. You’ve just missed Marie Antoinette telling them to eat cake.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“This is Versailles. Have you been in the casino?”
I shook my head, unable to rip my eyes away from the production going on outside.
“Guillotines.”
I looked at him then. “What?”
“The slot machines. When you hit a jackpot, the blade crashes down on top of the machine. It’s not real, of course, so no one will get hurt.”
Sometimes the illusions went too far. But he seemed rather proud of his guillotines, so I kept the thought to myself. Instead, I changed the subject.
“So why would Chip Manning’s driver be here?”
Simon Chase took a deep breath. “When your client left yesterday, Chip moved in here. He usually stays in this suite when he’s in town, but his visit this time was, well, unexpected.”
Because he was supposed to be on his honeymoon with Elise.
“You’re the woman on the telly, aren’t you?” Simon had finally made the connection.
“That’s right.”
“You saw Elise.”
“Yes.” I didn’t quite know what else to say. If he’d seen the bit on TV, then he already knew what I knew.
Fortunately, the conversation had to stop at that point, because the elevator doors opened and the footman led two detectives, a couple of crime scene forensics guys like the ones you see on TV, and two paramedics and a gurney into the room.
Simon Chase became all business. He showed them where the body was. One of the detectives tossed a glance back at me, and I recognized him as one of Tim’s buddies. Great.
“She found the body,” I heard Simon saying from the other room.
I felt my stomach drop with those words, and when I saw the detective—what was his name?—come out to talk to me, it got worse.
“What happened here, Brett?”
He was on a first-name basis with me, but I was in the dark about his.
“I was supposed to see someone else, a client, and when I
got here, I saw this guy instead.” That was it in a nutshell.
He wanted more than that.
“So someone commissioned you to, well . . .” His voice trailed off as he tried to figure out just what it was I was supposed to do.
“It was a house call,” I filled in for him. “Someone who wanted a tat. But that client wasn’t here. The guy in the bathroom was.”
“Who was the client?”
I told him, and his eyebrows shot up, a grin dancing across his face. “Really?”
“But he wasn’t here,” I repeated. “So I went downstairs, and Mr. Chase came back up with me.”
The elevator doors opened again, and a big, white-haired man bounded into the room.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded, looking straight at Simon Chase.
I didn’t need anyone to tell me his name. He was Simon Chase’s boss, Bruce Manning. I’d seen him enough on TV myself to know that.
“I’m afraid there’s been an incident,” I heard Simon murmur, taking Manning’s elbow much like he did mine earlier and steering him toward the window, next to the piano, away from the activity.
Why is it that an English accent will make anything sound civilized—even death?
“We’re going to need to take your fingerprints,” the detective was saying to me.
Brian. That was it. That was his name.
“Sure, I guess so, but I didn’t touch anything. I used my elbow to push the elevator button.” I paused. “Does this mean he was murdered? He didn’t just keel over in the tub?”
Brian didn’t look too happy with me. “We’re going to need to take them, just in case.”
I knew what that meant: just in case I was lying about why I was here, who I was supposed to see. Just in case I happened to have killed that guy in there.
And as I was thinking that, Brian pointed to my case, which Simon had put on the floor next to the plush sofa.
“I need to check that out.”
I pulled it out and unlatched it, opening it to reveal my inks and needles wrapped nicely in their one-time-use packages and the tattoo machine. Brian poked around, lifting up the latex gloves, also in packages. The state of Nevada wouldn’t find any health violations with me or my shop.
Without saying anything, Brian took the latex gloves and needle packages and went into the other room. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of that, especially since I wasn’t sure what he was up to.
Bruce Manning’s voice filtered into my head.
“I want to know what that driver was doing in here.”
“Does it matter now?” Simon’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“He shouldn’t be in here without Chip.”
“Where is Chip?”
Good question. I tried not to be obvious, watching them out of the corner of my eye as they huddled in the far corner of the room.
“Why is that woman with the tattoos here?” Bruce Manning obviously didn’t feel compelled to answer Simon’s question; either that, or he didn’t know where Chip was. Maybe both.
“She says she was supposed to see the previous guest.” The whisper was a little louder now, and while Manning’s back was to me, Simon was looking in my direction—straight at me, actually. And he winked.
It was a tiny wink, but a wink all the same, and I got warm all over again, suppressing a smile.
“That’s ridiculous,” Manning said, swinging around now and spotting me hovering near the sofa. In three strides he was next to me, and I had no choice but to stand tall.
I was at least two inches taller than he was.
But what he lacked in height, he made up for in stature.
“Young lady, you had no business in this room.”
“On the contrary, sir, I did.”
His head swiveled to look at Simon Chase. “Is she telling the truth?”
Simon cocked his head at me, studying my face, and then said, “I believe so.”
“Well, then, you’ve got a security issue here, Chase, and I demand you take care of it. She should never have been allowed up here, regardless, without you knowing about it.”
“I’ll look into it, Mr. Manning,” Simon said, his voice measured.
“Is there a reason you’re still here?” Manning bellowed at me.
“There is.” Brian the detective was standing behind me, still holding the gloves, but now they were out of the package. I had a bad feeling about this.
“Did you put a pair of these gloves on earlier?” he asked.
All eyes were on me, and I shifted slightly.
“No. Why would I? I hadn’t even seen my client.”
Brian’s face was stonelike. I couldn’t read it. His words, though, came through loud and clear.
“A pair of gloves like this was in the tub. And a package exactly like the one you have in your case is in the trash can.”
Chapter 20
“You’ve got to be kidding,” was the first thing out of my mouth, which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say.
“What are you implying?” Simon Chase’s voice surprised me, as he approached Brian.
Brian looked from me to Chase and back again. “Perhaps we need to take this downtown,” he said.
“You should take her into custody now,” Manning demanded.
I glared at him. “Can I at least get a phone call?” I heard something in my voice that was not conducive to speaking to police officers.
“We’ll call your brother for you,” Brian offered, but it wasn’t more than an official gesture.
“I think I’d rather call him,” I said, reaching for my messenger bag, which was still slung around my shoulder.
I don’t know if it was my sudden movement—maybe he thought I was going for some sort of weapon—but Brian body-slammed me and I fell back over the top of the sofa and did a sort of backward somersault. Before I landed between the sofa and the massive coffee table, however, I felt a strong arm around my shoulders, helping me up.
Simon Chase asked, “Are you all right?”
I nodded, adjusting my skirt and shirt and messenger bag, combing my fingers through my hair. “Thanks,” I murmured, glancing at his profile, which was really quite striking. So he was chivalrous, to boot. Not like Brian the detective, who just stood there, staring.
“I think you owe Miss Kavanaugh an apology,” Simon Chase demanded of Brian.
I was liking him more and more.
Instead of saying he was sorry, Brian shoved a cell phone at me. “Call your brother.”
I took it before he changed his mind and went across the room, in front of the magnificent marble fireplace that dominated the far wall. I hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but as I heard Tim’s cell ringing, I studied the painting above the mantel. It was a splash of colors in the Impressionist style. But it was merely an imitation, and not a very good one at that.
“Kavanaugh.”
That’s right: He wouldn’t know it was me because it wasn’t my phone.
“Um, Tim? It’s Brett.”
“Brett?”
“I’m in a bit of trouble, I think. At least your friend Brian of the LVPD thinks so.”
Silence, then, “Why is that, Brett?”
“He thinks I have something to do with the body found in the bathroom in the Marie Antoinette Suite at Versailles.”
More silence.
“Why would he think that?”
Yeah, why would he? Except for a pair of latex gloves you could buy at any Wal-Mart. I didn’t say what I was thinking this time, though. I had to tread lightly with Tim. He didn’t like it that I kept ending up on his turf.
So I ran through the afternoon’s events as quickly as I could, without even taking a breath. When I was finished, he said, “Okay, I’ll be right there.”
As I closed the phone, I felt someone behind me. I expected to see Brian, but it was Simon Chase. His brow was furrowed, like he was worried about me or something.
“Everything all right?”
&
nbsp; I nodded. “My brother,” I said, indicating the phone. “He’s a detective. He’s going to be here shortly.” I tossed my head toward the painting. “You know, the Impressionists didn’t paint until the nineteenth century. Your interior designer was off a century with the decorating. Or did she perhaps just choose it because of the colors?”
His eyebrows slid up slightly. “And you know about paintings, Miss Kavanaugh?”
I liked the way my name sounded when he wrapped his accent around it. Not like when Jeff Coleman barked it at me.
“I have a degree in fine arts from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, concentrating in painting.”
The eyebrows slid even higher. “That explains the tattoo on your arm.” He smiled, a sly little smile that made me tingle unexpectedly. And what he said next was even more unexpected: “But what about the dragon over your breast?”
The way his tongue lingered on the word “breast” took my breath away for a second. It was completely inappropriate, considering there was a dead guy in the next room and Brian thought I was some sort of person of interest. But I couldn’t help myself. He was the sexiest guy I’d met in a long time.
Maybe it was just the accent.
No, it was the whole package. I was ready to storm his Bastille.
“I like Chinese dragons,” was all I could spit out. I was sure he saw right through me, but to his credit, he didn’t call me on it.
“So you’re a fan of Asian art? Or French Impressionists?”
“Neoclassicists.” I said it before thinking.
Again with the eyebrows. “Really? Who?”
“Jacques-Louis David. Death of Marat. Death of Socrates.”
“You’re into death, then. You must feel right at home here.”
He was flirting with me. A little “yay” echoed through my head, but I merely smiled. “At least he’s French.”
“Yes, he has that going for him.” Simon Chase’s eyes twinkled. “So why don’t you have Marat on your arm?”
I thought about the painting: Marat slumped over the side of the bathtub, the blood on the sheet underneath him, the bloodstained letter in his hand. So real it was as if you could touch him.
The Missing Ink: A Tattoo Shop Mystery Page 9