Driven to Ink

Chapter 17

Giving me an anxious look begging me not to reveal I knew who she was, Rosalie worried the edge of the sunglasses with long fingers tipped with short-clipped nails.

“I haven’t heard a word,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I was hoping you’d have some news.”

Jeff went over to her and patted her on the forearm. “I went out to the canyon. Stopped everywhere I could between here and there, but I couldn’t find them.”

“Have you heard any more from the police about their car?”

“No, I’m sorry.” And I could see in his face that he truly was. There was compassion there, and his own worry.

Hated to say it, but I liked Jeff Coleman better when he wasn’t quite so human. Made him easier to deal with.

Rosalie was looking at me out of the corner of her eye, and Jeff noticed.

“Rosalie Marino, Brett Kavanaugh.”

I smiled and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I said, hoping she’d see that I wasn’t about to out her.

She took my hand limply with a couple of fingers. “Yes, nice to meet you, too.”

“Brett’s helping with trying to track down my mother and Bernie,” Jeff explained.

Rosalie was still looking at me, and her eyes widened, but I shrugged and, before she could say anything, added, “So far, though, we’re hitting a brick wall.” I didn’t want to get into the whole Dan Franklin thing. If we found out for sure he had something do with Sylvia and Bernie, then that would be the time to mention him.

Rosalie looked back at Jeff and gave him a sad smile. “I’m on my way to work. Can you give me a call if you hear anything?” She pulled a piece of paper and a pen from her bag and scribbled down a number, handing it to Jeff.

He took it and held her hand for a second. “We’ll find them, Rosalie. Don’t worry.” His expression held a tenderness I’d never seen before, and her eyes filled with tears.

I shifted uncomfortably, uncertain what to do or say.

My cell phone made the decision for me as it warbled Bruce Springsteen from inside my bag.

It startled both Rosalie and Jeff, who seemed as though they had forgotten I was there.

I took the phone out of my bag, said, “I’ll be outside,” and flipped the phone open with one hand as I pressed the door with the other. Once on the sidewalk, I said, “What’s up, Bitsy?”

“It’s almost noon, and you’ve got a client coming in. Where are you?”

Who needed a mother with Bitsy around? The guilt started to seep in. Sister Mary Eucharista would make me write fifty times, I will not exploit my employees while I go messing around in other people’s business. Although admittedly, I’d been asked to help, so I could be perceived as being a good friend. Somehow I’m not sure the sister would’ve seen it that way, though.

“I’ll be there in a few,” I said. “I’m up here at Murder Ink. Bernie’s daughter just showed. She and Jeff are really worried.”

That was the way to turn it around on the guilt, because Bitsy immediately said, “So there’s still no word from them? Where do you think they might be?”

I quickly told her about our morning’s activities-going to the chapel and then to Dan Franklin’s house and finding it all closed up-and ended with my suspicion that Sylvia and Bernie had seen something they shouldn’t have.

I didn’t tell her what Tim had said about Ray Lucci being Sylvia’s son. Unlike Bitsy, I can keep a secret, and, anyway, I hadn’t really thought that one through yet. How that could’ve played a role in all this.

Because I had started wondering whether it didn’t play a role after all. It seemed as though it had to, but how, I wasn’t sure.

Bitsy didn’t notice I was holding back and latched on to the one thing I knew she probably would. “Are you going to call this Dean Martin guy? Are you going to see if he knows something?”

Before I got a chance to respond, she added, “You know, Brett, you’ve got the worst luck with men. Maybe this one will be different.”

She was referring to the two men who’d been in my life in the last six months: a casino manager, who was too much of a ladies’ man for my taste, and an emergency room doctor, whom I’d completely misread and, thus, had sabotaged something that might have been good.

“I met him for five seconds,” I said, getting defensive. “I have no idea if we’d get along or anything.”

“But you said he liked you.” Bitsy is the ultimate romantic. She’s been married a couple of times but never gotten bitter about it. She’s dated her fair share of men and recently signed up for Match.com because, as she put it, “What else am I supposed to do with my time?”

Bitsy was a serial dater.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The fact that she’s a little person was absolutely no deterrent for the men she dated, which I found fascinating. She dated little people and tall people.

She was still talking. “I think you should call him. Have lunch. Lunch is always good.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, watching Jeff and Rosalie through the front window. Rosalie had sunk down into one of Jeff’s chairs, and he was sitting across from her, his elbows on his knees, leaning over and talking. Her face was sagging with sadness.

“I’ll be in shortly,” I said again, hanging up on Bitsy.

I didn’t know whether I should go back in or just leave quietly. After a few seconds, I decided that leaving was the best thing. I didn’t want to intrude on their conversation. So I made my way over to the Bright Lights Motel and climbed into the Jeep. The gearshift stuck as I tried to put it into first, and I could hear the clutch grind.

I wanted my car back.

I couldn’t think about Jeff or Rosalie or Will Parker or any of it for the next couple hours. My client was already at the shop when I arrived, and I didn’t have time to say anything but a quick hello to Bitsy and Ace when I walked through the door. Joel was already with a client, and I gave him a little finger waggle as I passed his room.

Carmella, my client, was older than me, maybe in her forties. She was here for her ninth tattoo: tribal ink on her left thigh, running from her hip to her knee. Carmella had found some designs, and I’d put together something that she was thrilled with, even though it was pretty simplistic overall and as an artist, not too challenging for me. It was time-consuming, however, and two hours later we were making arrangements to finish it up in a couple of weeks.

Joel was leaning against the front desk when Carmella finally took off, pleased with her half tattoo.

“Bitsy’s been filling me in. Why did you pretend you were going to marry Jeff Coleman? I would’ve gone over there with you.”

I appreciated the thought. But Joel’s girth, his barbed-wire tattoos, the long braid that almost reached his waist now, and the chain that snaked into his pocket and held his keys all screamed biker, while his soft, lilting voice and almost girlish mannerisms revealed his true nature. No one would buy us getting married.

I smiled and thanked him. “I’m all done with that now.”

“Are you? What about that impersonator?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does he really look like Dean Martin?” From the way he asked, I began to wonder whether Joel didn’t have a Rat Pack crush, too. While we suspected his inclinations, we weren’t positive which way Joel swung; he hadn’t come out to us, and we never saw him with a date, girl or guy.

“Not without the wig, really,” I said.

Bitsy pushed open the door. I hadn’t realized she’d gone out. She was carrying a take-out bag from Johnny Rockets.

“Lunch,” she announced.

It was two o’clock, but who was paying attention? It was always lunch in the shop, especially with Joel around. Although we had been eating way more burgers lately because of this Atkins thing. I wondered what it would be next. I couldn’t see him turning vegetarian or vegan. Weight Watchers made a load of money off him, and he swore them off. Maybe that Jenny Craig thing I kept seeing on TV, where you have to buy their food.

None of it appealed to me, and fortunately, I was skinny enough and my metabolism obviously still worked well enough that I didn’t have to worry about it.

We followed Bitsy to the staff room, and she handed out burgers. Joel’s next client had arrived, though, so he downed his burger in two bites before taking his client into his room.

“Where’s Ace?” I asked between bites.

“He’s taking the afternoon off,” Bitsy said. “He’s working on some new paintings, and he wanted some time for that.”

Of all my employees, I knew Ace the least. The things I did know were fairly superficial, like where he lived and how he got into this business. Ace was a frustrated artist, thus the comic-book paintings on our walls, but since he didn’t make much money off those, he had to make money somehow. He’d fallen into tattooing by meeting up with Flip Armstrong, the guy who owned the shop before me, and training with him. I’d done the same thing back east with Mickey, but unlike Ace, I embraced my new career. Ace did great work, don’t get me wrong, and was very conscientious about it, but he was always a little removed from it, as if he were too good for it.

A buzzer sounded. Someone had come into the shop. Bitsy jumped up off her chair and went out front. I kept eating.

But the burger almost caught in my throat when Bitsy came back.

With Will Parker behind her.