Driven to Ink

Chapter 5

It couldn’t possibly be the same cord. Mr. That’s Amore had been in my trunk since yesterday, and Joel was working yesterday, so it couldn’t be. As I’d told Tim earlier, I hadn’t taken any equipment home with me and didn’t keep anything in my car. But it did seem odd that I’d discovered a body with a clip cord around its neck, and now we had a clip cord that had gone missing.

“I used the extra one yesterday,” Joel was saying. “I don’t know what I did with it.”

Bitsy was riffling underneath Joel’s shelves, where he kept extra baby wipes, boxes of latex gloves, and inks. Her face was bright red, her breath ragged. I’d never seen her so undone. She was obviously making the connection, too, between what had happened this morning and Joel’s missing cord.

“I knew it was here,” she kept saying. “I put it right down here. I know I did.”

Joel and I shook our heads at each other and shrugged.

“Who was in here yesterday?” I asked Joel.

“Well, besides me and Bitsy, I did a couple of tattoos in the morning and three, I think, after lunch. It was a busy day.”

Bitsy stood up with her hands on her hips, staring at the space where she insisted she’d put the clip cord, as if it would miraculously appear telekinetically.

“So Ace didn’t borrow it?”

“Why would he?” Joel asked. “He’s got a couple in his room.”

I knew that, but I had to ask. I had two clip cords in my room, too, so would have no need to borrow anyone else’s.

“A client wouldn’t take it,” Joel said. “Would they?”

“It’s got to be here somewhere,” Bitsy muttered, shoving between me and Joel as she left the room.

“It probably got put somewhere, and we’ll find it later,” I said. “She’s jumping to conclusions.”

“You have to admit it’s a little weird,” Joel said, going over to his shelves and taking another look.

I didn’t help. I really was beginning to think this was just hysteria. There was absolutely no reason why anyone would take a clip cord from our shop.

Bitsy was scouring the appointment book when I came back out, leaving Joel to his own search. Ace was nowhere to be seen.

“He went out to that oxygen bar for his fix,” Bitsy said, referring to Breathe just down the walkway from the shop. Ace was addicted to the aromatherapy oxygen pumped through his nostrils at the trendy “bar.” He said the pretty Asian girl who massaged his back while he was hooked up wasn’t bad, either.

Joel lumbered past, his hefty frame looking-dare I say it-maybe a little less hefty.

I forgot about the clip cord for a second and asked, “Joel, have you lost weight?”

He grinned. “I’m on the Atkins diet. I’ve lost twenty-five pounds. You noticed?”

While I was pleased he was losing weight, I was dubious about Atkins. “You mean you’re only eating meat?”

“Haven’t you noticed he’s not eating the buns with the burgers?” Bitsy asked without looking up from the appointment book. She was the queen of multitasking.

I guess I’d been remiss. But Joel wasn’t holding it against me.

“I’m eating salads, too.”

“How long?”

“About two weeks.”

“No, I mean, how long are you going to be on it?”

“Brett”-he scowled-“there’s no time limit.” He reached for the door.

“Where are you going?” Bitsy looked up from the book. “You’ve got a client coming in ten minutes.”

“I want to take a walk around the canal. I’ll be back.”

As the door closed slowly behind him, Bitsy and I looked at each other.

“Exercise?” I asked.

“It won’t last,” Bitsy said. “You know how many times he tried that Weight Watchers.” She went back to her book. “His clients yesterday were a Ronald Haugen, Jessica Storey, Mark Wilkinson, Dan Franklin, and Tony Perez. But not in that order. Franklin was first. Then Perez, then Storey, Haugen, and Wilkinson.”

“Why does it matter what order?” I asked.

Her head shot up, and she stared at me, her bright blue eyes flashing. “Maybe because it makes me feel good to think there’s some sort of order in this chaos.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so I asked, “When’s my first client?”

“Not until three o’clock.” Her head was buried in the book again. “I rescheduled you.”

I figured I’d get some stencils done in the meantime, so I went into the staff room and sat at the light table. I’d been working on a portrait of a woman’s daughter who’d passed away earlier in the year. A pile of manila folders sat perched on the edge of the table, and I picked them up and leafed through them, looking for mine.

One of the folders slipped out of my hand and fell to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere.

It was one of Joel’s. I recognized his bold lines. As I stuffed the drawings and stencil back into the folder, one caught my eye.

I picked it out from the rest.

It was merely an Old English script, but what it said made my heart start to pound.

“That’s Amore.”