Toni L.P. Kelner - Laura Fleming 05 - Tight as a Tick

by Toni L. P. Kelner

  “You helped a lot,” I said emphatically.

  “Then, why is it that this time, all I’ve done is watch the booth while Aunt Maggie shows you around, and then listen while you ask questions?”

  “I’m sorry, Richard. I didn’t mean to leave you with the grunt work. You and I are a team.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  He didn’t say anything after that, and after a minute, I asked, “Was there something else bothering you?”

  “No. I was just hoping for a more demonstrative apology.”

  “You want demonstrative? I’ll give you demonstrative that’ll curl your hair.” I started with a big hug, added a long, enthusiastic kiss, and then repeated the process. “See, your hair is curly now.”

  He ran his hands through it. “You’re right.” He kindly refrained from mentioning that his hair had been curly to start with. “Though I’d rather see if I can return the favor, I think that we better get back to the booth. I have a hunch Aunt Maggie is a stickler about lunch hours.”

  Chapter 17

  It got busy after lunch, which made the time go by quickly, but I was still getting tired. I’m usually a desk jockey—Fm not used to spending so much time on my feet. Aunt Maggie is used to it, but one thing that happened made me think that she was getting tired, too.

  Richard had gone to the bathroom when this one man stood there and fiddled with a platter so long I thought I was going to scream. He looked at it, picked it up, held it up to the light to check for chips, put it down, picked it up again, frowned at the price tag, and put it down again. Then he walked away, but came right back and started the process all over again. Aunt Maggie must have finally had enough of it because she said, “Can I help you?”

  He said, “I saw one just like this at another booth, and it was only marked ten dollars. You’ve got this one marked twenty dollars.”

  “That’s right,” Aunt Maggie said.

  “It’s not worth twenty dollars.”

  “Then don’t buy it.”

  “Why would that other dealer be selling it for ten if it’s worth twenty?”

  “Why don’t you go ask him?”

  “I’ll give you ten for it.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  He frowned at her. “It’s not worth any more than that.”

  “Then I’ll keep it.”

  He frowned some more. “You’ll take fifteen, won’t you?”

  “Not from you. In fact, I wouldn’t take twenty from you.”

  “All right, I’ll give you twenty.” He reached into his pocket like it hurt him and pulled out two ten-dollar bills.

  But Aunt Maggie said, “I just told you I’m not going to sell it to you.” She grabbed a sheet of newspaper, wrapped up the platter, and put it in a box underneath the table.

  He looked so shocked that it was almost funny. “I said I’d pay you the twenty dollars. You have to sell it to me.”

  “Mister, I don’t have to do a doggoned thing.” Then she turned deliberately away from him.

  He stood there holding out the money for a full minute before wandering away, scratching his head.

  “I don’t get it,” I said to Aunt Maggie. “He was going to give you what you wanted for it.”

  “Laurie Anne, there’s not enough money in the world to make me put up with that much aggravation. What’s the point of having your own business if you don’t run it to suit yourself?”

  After Richard got back, there was a lull, and I was wondering if it would be all right to crawl into Aunt Maggie’s car long enough to take a nap when Augustus came in, carrying a cardboard box.

  “Hey, Augustus,” I said, hoping he was in a better mood than he’d been in the night before. He sure didn’t look any better.

  “Hey,” he said. “Aunt Maggie, Mama wanted me to bring these over. She said she’d already talked to you about them.”

  Aunt Maggie took the box from him and opened it. “Are these the tapes from Nellie and Ruben’s place?”

  “The first box, anyway. I’ve got more in the car.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to bring these over this morning? We’re going to be closing up before too much longer.”

  “I meant to come by sooner, but I forgot.”

  She sniffed as she looked at the tapes. “There aren’t any X-rated ones in here, are there? I don’t want to sell anything like that.”

  He shrugged. “I’m only doing what I was told.”

  “Just like in the army?” I said with a grin. He didn’t grin back.

  “Richard, do you mind helping Augustus bring in the rest of those tapes?” Aunt Maggie asked.

  “Not at all,” he said, and the two of them left.

  There still weren’t any customers around, so I took advantage of the relative privacy to ask, “Aunt Maggie, does Augustus seem all right to you? I thought he was acting kind of funny at dinner last night.”

  “I haven’t seen that much of him since he’s been back, but I hear nobody is real happy with him. When you ask him to do something, he says he will, but then forgets all about it. Look at how he forgot to bring these tapes by this morning, and how he forgot to call you about his own party. And he hasn’t done the first thing about finding a job.” She shook her head. “Of course, I didn’t know him all that well to start with—I never could keep Nora’s boys straight.”

  That was Aunt Maggie all over. Aunt Nora and Uncle Buddy’s sons were as unlike one another as three brothers could be. Willis was quiet like his father, Thaddeous was outgoing like his mama, and Augustus had always been the charmer, different from both his parents.

  Like me, Augustus had decided early on that he didn’t want to stay in Byerly. There was just too much world out there waiting. I’d gone to college, and Augustus had joined the army. I said, “He always said he didn’t want to live in Byerly. Maybe he’s looking for work elsewhere.”

  “If he is, I haven’t heard anything about it.”

  A trio of women came over then, stopping us from continuing the conversation, but it didn’t stop me from worrying about my cousin.

  Richard and Augustus made several trips to bring in all the tapes, keeping Aunt Maggie busy trying to find somewhere to put them all.

  “I bet I won’t sell any of these,” she fussed. “Is that all of them, Augustus?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Then why don’t you keep Richard company for a while? I want to introduce Laurie Anne to somebody.” Before he could answer, she said, “Richard knows what to do. Laurie Anne, give him your apron.”

  I felt bad about him having to wear that silly-looking thing, but he didn’t seem to care one way or another. I also felt bad about leaving Richard at the booth again. “Richard, would you rather go with Aunt Maggie this time?”

  “What difference does it make?” Aunt Maggie asked. “You two tell each other everything anyway.”

  “She’s got a point,” Richard said with a grin. “You go ahead.”

  I gave him a quick kiss, and as we walked away, I said, “You know, Aunt Maggie, Carney was such a creep that it’s hard to get motivated to solve his murder.” I paused, hoping she’d take the hint and explain why she cared so much about his death.

  But she just said, “Let’s see if Tattoo Bob has time to talk.”

  Tattoo Bob Tyndall’s booth didn’t need a sign. The posters of tattoos taped onto the wall showed what he was selling. The front tables were lined with samples of his work, and if somebody couldn’t find something they liked among the hundreds displayed, there was a row of binders labelled “Flowers,” “Big Cats,” “Cars,” “Military,” “Teams,” and every other category I could imagine. The back corner of the booth was blocked off with what looked like cast-off office cubical walls, and I guessed that was where he worked.

  Bob was scrubbing away at a kaleidoscope of spilled colors on one of his tables. I always think of tattoo artists as grizzled, sloppy-looking men, but Bob was clean shaven and dressed in white jeans and a dark gray, shor
t-sleeved Oxford shirt.

  “Hey, Bob,” Aunt Maggie said. She reminded him that we’d met and once again explained what I was doing there. At least, she explained what we wanted people to believe. Then she said, “Laurie Anne, why don’t you talk with Bob for a minute? I’ve got to visit the little girl’s room.” As earthy as Aunt Maggie usually is, there are some things she won’t say outright.

  “I hope you didn’t lose too much in the break-in,” I said after she left.

  “They spilled some of my colors, but I can replace them. The thing I was most worried about was my tattoo gun, and it seems all right.” Bob looked down at the ink spill. “This stain here has given me an idea for a new design.”

  “It is colorful,” I said, but I couldn’t picture myself with a multicolored Rorschach test on my arm.

  “Have you and your husband decided what business y’all want to go into?” Bob asked.

  “Not yet,” I said, “but I don’t think it will be tattoos. I can’t draw a straight line without a ruler, and my husband can’t draw one with a ruler.”

  “Some gifts you have to be born with,” Bob said. “You can practice and you can learn techniques and tricks, but if you don’t have that God-given ability to draw, there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m just one of the lucky ones.”

  Looking at the sample designs, I had to agree. “Did you draw all of these?”

  He nodded with an air of satisfaction. “I want every client to get just the right design. See this hummingbird? I did this on a lady’s ankle last week. She has a husband and four children, but she still has a spark of wildness in her soul, and I wanted her tattoo to show that. Look at the eyes—you can see how that hummingbird wants to fly free.”

  Darned if I didn’t see what he was talking about. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Of course, some of these are based on other people’s work—we artists call those swipes—but I’ve put my own spin on them. Mermaids are traditional in tattoos, but if you look close at this one, you can see where I’ve given her gills along her throat and webbing between her fingers. There’s no such thing as a mermaid, but if there was, she’d need those things to survive.”

  “Amazing.” I looked over the other mythological creatures that covered that part of the table, lingering over a griffin done in blues and purples.

  “Have you got any tattoos, Laurie Anne?”

  From anybody else, I’d have thought it was an inept pick-up line, but in Bob’s case, I figured it was professional interest. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Have you ever thought about getting one?”

  “Not really.” I tried to think of an inoffensive way to explain why not. “Tattoo artists aren’t legal in Massachusetts.”

  “Here I thought Boston was a sophisticated place. Tattooing is one of the oldest art forms in the world. People get tattoos to show their tribe, their religion, what branch of the service they’re in, who they love, and just to look pretty. In Japan they’ve got museums filled with nothing but tattoos, but in this country, there’s still places that have made us artists into outlaws.” He sighed heavily.

  I tried to figure which category the bare-bosomed warrior women fit into—I didn’t think it had anything to do with religion. “I guess some people are scared of the needles. Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “It hurts some,” he admitted, “but that lady with the hummingbird said it hurt more to use her Epilady. I know her ankle ached the next day, but didn’t it hurt to get your ears pierced? Doesn’t it hurt to walk around in high heels? Ties like to strangle me to death, and I hear wearing panty hose is worse.”

  I decided not to mention that I’ve never bled from panty hose. “Have you done tattoos on any of the other dealers?”

  “Some of them. Do you know Tammy and J.B.? They’ve got matching Harley-Davidson logos with each other’s name in them. They said they wanted to show their commitment to each other. You can lose a ring, but a tattoo lasts forever.”

  “Or until they get laser treatment.” I said it as a joke, but I could tell from the look on Bob’s face that it had been a mistake.

  “I don’t see how anybody can destroy a work of art like that! If any of my clients ever do such a thing, I hope I never hear about it.”

  Wanting to redeem myself, I asked, “How about you? How many tattoos do you have?”

  “Only half a dozen. I’m particular about the ones I get.”

  I could see colors peeking out from his shirt sleeves, and he pushed up his right sleeve to show me a green and gold oriental dragon twisting across his biceps. “I got this after I quit drinking. The dragon represents the alcoholism—the monster’s still part of me, but I’m in control.” He pushed up the other sleeve to display a growling tiger. “This represents the victory of mammals over the reptiles, because that’s how man evolved.”

  That sounded like something out of Ayn Rand.

  “This one here,” he said, pulling up his pants leg, “is a replica of my notary seal. I can’t show the others in public.”

  I was just as glad he didn’t offer to show me those, but if he had, I’m sure it would have been for art’s sake alone. “What kind of tattoos have you done for the other dealers?”

  “I’ve drawn a few Confederate flags and some skulls with flames around them. Tigers are always popular. I offered to design a donut for Obed Hanford, but he said he doesn’t have long enough arms to get them decorated. Your aunt never has let me work on her, either. I thought I could do a picture of one of those jugs she collects, but she said she doesn’t stay interested in any one thing long enough to want it on her for the rest of her life.”

  “What about that man who died? Did he ever get a tattoo?”

  Bob looked disgusted. “I wouldn’t have wasted one drop of ink on Carney Alexander’s worthless hide.”

  That sounded promising. “I take it that you didn’t care for him.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. That skunk tried to trade me one of his knives for a tattoo, but I know a little bit about knives, and the one he was offering wasn’t worth a monogram on somebody’s ankle, let alone what he wanted.”

  He scanned the designs on the wall, then pointed to one. “That’s what he asked me for.”

  The design was a gorgeous Asian woman wearing an inviting smile and not much else. She did have a fan decorated like a peacock’s tail, but the way she was holding it didn’t detract from her charms.

  “It would have taken me half a day or more to do,” Bob said. “It’s a tough one, with all those colors in the fan and getting the skin tones right so she comes out looking Oriental instead of jaundiced. I told Carney I’d be losing money, but he pulled out some price guide and showed me a description of the knife. Only I don’t believe it was the same knife, so I said that when he sold the knife, he could pay cash for the tattoo. The way he stormed off just showed me that the knife wasn’t worth that much money. I knew he was mad, but I didn’t have any idea he’d pull the stunt he pulled.”

  “What did he do?”

  “The next week I got a visit from the Board of Health. They’d had an anonymous call from somebody saying that I was using dirty needles!” He waved at half a dozen jars of alcohol and disinfectant. “I wash every needle every night and every morning, and every time I use one during the day. There’s no way I could have dirty needles, and they could see that for themselves, but what if they’d been the kind to find something wrong when there’s nothing to find? I know their being here scared off a couple of customers.

  When a tattoo artist gets a bad reputation, he may as well hang it up. It used to be people were only scared of hepatitis, but with AIDS, you just can’t be too careful.”

  Bob looked over toward Carney’s booth. “I knew sure as shooting that Carney called them, even if I couldn’t prove it. I’d have been glad to put something on him after that, but I don’t think he’d have liked having ‘low-down sneak’ written on his arm.”

  He didn’t seem to realize that his words could make hi
m a suspect in Carney’s murder, which told me that he was either innocent or awfully smart. “Aunt Maggie said you were one of the ones who found his body. That must have been terrible.”

  “Yes, it was. Even after what he’d done to me, I wouldn’t have wished that on him. Being in this line of work, I’m not bothered by the sight of blood, but seeing Carney covered in it was different.”

  “I can’t imagine who could have done something like that,” I said. Sometimes you get more answers to the questions you don’t ask than to the ones you do. Sure enough, it worked this time.

  Bob looked around, then lowered his voice. “I have to admit that I’ve wondered about Bender Cawthorne.”

  “Really? What did he have against Carney?”

  “Nothing that I know of, but Bender hits the bottle pretty hard, and you never really know what a drunk’s going to do. I can tell you that from my own experience.” He rubbed the dragon tattoo on his arm. “I’ve offered to take him to one of my AA meetings, but he won’t go.”

  Could Bender have been drunk enough to kill Carney and smart enough to play dumb later that day? Or could he have forgotten all about it? Alcohol plays tricks on memory. “Wasn’t Carney killed in the morning? Would Bender have been drinking that early?”

  Bob said, “I’d never seen him real early in the day until this morning, but I have seen him take a nip of Rebel Yell while he’s collecting rent money, and that’s usually before noon.”

  Bender was certainly worth considering. I’d have to see what else I could find out about Bob, too, but I didn’t have any other questions for him then. I was about to say goodbye and go track down Aunt Maggie when a design on the wall caught my eye. “Bob, is that who I think it is?”

  He grinned like he was pleased that I’d recognized it. “Sure is. Tattoos aren’t just about naked women—I do intellectual tattoos for educated people, too.”