Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

“Penny, we’ll be in my office.”

I followed Simon to a door in the back that I hadn’t noticed. When he opened it, an office the size of the Marie Antoinette Suite overwhelmed me. It wasn’t decorated in the same way; it was more retro, with a long Scandinavian desk and funky lights and a red leather couch that looked like it belonged on the set of Dan Tanna’s Vega$ . The long windows along the back wall gave me a view of the mountains, reminding me about Red Rock and how I could totally use a hike right about now to work off this stress.

What I didn’t notice at first was the person at the bar-a full bar with glasses and bottles and a sink-over to the left. When he spoke, it startled me.

“What the hell’s going on upstairs?”

I recognized him now. Chip Manning. Son of Bruce and cuckolded fiancé of Elise. He’d had a few, from the way the amber liquid sloshed around in his glass as he swayed toward us.

Simon took his arm, steadying him and settling him onto the couch. Chip put his glass on the coffee table, leaned forward, and shouted, “Why doesn’t anyone tell me what’s going on? My father left me here, told me to stay, and he’s been gone, I don’t know, at least three drinks.”

Maybe four or five, but who was counting? And obviously Manning had known where his son was but had chosen not to say.

“There’s been a situation.” Again, that British accent made a murder sound like Sunday in the park.

Before he could elaborate, though, Chip noticed me for the first time.

“You!” He stood up and pointed his finger at me. “What are you doing here?”

Simon positioned himself in between us, like Chip was going to come after me or something. “She needs to use the phone. Why don’t we step outside for a moment?” And in one easy swoop, Simon pulled Chip around the table and steered him out of the office, nodding at me as he closed the door after them.

Now that they were gone and I was alone, my head started swirling. What was up with the guy upstairs? It certainly sounded like a tattooist had been there. Granted, anyone could get tattoo needles; you could order them off the Internet. But odds were that it had been a tattooist.

I really wanted to find Jeff Coleman and ask him some questions.

First, however, I had to call the shop.

Bitsy answered.

“Hi, it’s me. I’m not going to be back today.”

“You’ve got a seven-o’clock.”

“Cancel it.”

“What? You never cancel. And she was rescheduled from this morning. What’s wrong? Did something happen on that house call?” She paused. “Hey, I get it. He fell madly in love with you while you tattooed his butt and you’ve found one of those Elvises and you’re going to get married in one of those awful chapels and you’ll be all over the tabloids this time tomorrow.”

“Wish it were true, Bits. But no, I’ve gotten held up, and Tim needs me for something. I’ll be in in the morning.”

“Tim needs you? Hey, wait-”

I hung up, then shut the phone off, knowing she’d try to call me back. I didn’t have Jeff Coleman’s cell number, and he wouldn’t be at his shop if he was skulking around the city hiding from the cops. But maybe someone there would know where he was. I turned the phone back on-I would need to recharge the battery later-and dialed his shop.

“Murder Ink.”

Somehow the name of his shop had become prophetic.

“I’m looking for Jeff.”

“He’s not here.” The voice was curt.

“It’s Brett Kavanaugh. He sent me to cover for him on a job, and there was some trouble.”

Silence, then, “What sort of trouble?”

“I need to talk to Jeff. How can I reach him?”

“How do I know you’re really Brett Kavanaugh?”

Everyone was a bit paranoid these days.

I wasn’t quite sure, either, how to answer that. I couldn’t exactly prove it over the phone, and my personal cell number would show up on their caller ID, not my shop’s number. “You’ll just have to trust me,” I tried.

“Sorry, lady,” and he hung up.

A knock at the door, and Simon Chase poked his head in. “Are you all set?”

“Yeah,” I said, shutting my phone off again.

Chip Manning came back in with Simon and collapsed on the couch. He’d left his drink outside. He pointed at me again, wagging his finger like Sister Mary Eucharista used to.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, tears in his eyes.

“Why didn’t I tell you what?”

“She wanted a tattoo.”

“We already had this conversation, Chip,” I said flatly.

“But she loved Matt. You knew that. It was what she wanted. Why didn’t you tell me that?” He started to sob. “Where is she? Where is Elise?” He lay down, his face against the cushion.

I looked at Simon Chase, who shrugged. I didn’t quite know what to do. Chip was drunk and brokenhearted.

He swung his head around and looked at me with one eye open. “Do me,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Give me a tattoo. I want it to say ‘Elise.’ I want it”-he rolled over and pulled his shirt up, tapping a hairless chest-“here. I want to feel the pain. I deserve it.” Rolling over again, he closed his eye, and in seconds he was snoring loudly.

I stifled a chuckle.

“Maybe you should do it.”

I looked at Simon Chase, who was staring at Chip.

“Do what?”

“I can go upstairs, get that case of yours, and you can tattoo him right here, right on this sofa. I heard him tell you to.”

It was tempting. “I demand up-front payment,” I said. “I don’t think he’s in any condition-”

“How much?”

“What?”

“How much?” He was serious.

I thought about the fee I’d lost earlier. “A thousand,” I said.

“Do you take cash?”

This had gone on long enough. “As much as I’d like to-and I like a practical joke as much as the next guy-I really can’t.”

“How about a temporary one?”

Our eyes met and we both started laughing.

“Now that’s a good idea,” I said. “I could make a stencil; he’d think it was real.”

The phone on the desk startled me, and I jumped. I noticed Simon didn’t. He probably got calls interrupting him all the time. He went over to his desk, and I watched him for a few seconds, until Chip made a sort of snorting sound. He rolled over, and as he did, I noticed something on the tails of his shirt. I peered more closely and saw small, reddish stains that seemed at first to blend in with the pink stripes.

They sure looked like blood to me.

I wasn’t a stranger to blood. The sight of it didn’t make me all queasy. Especially little splashes. I wiped more blood than this off a tat while I was working.

I thought about Matt Powell upstairs. I hadn’t seen any blood, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. He was stabbed in the neck. Had to be some. These stains couldn’t be from that-could they? Chip said he knew about Matthew, that he knew about the tattoo I was supposed to give Elise. How? As far as I knew, it wasn’t on TV yet. Had he found out anyway, like he’d found out about me-from his father, who was alerted by the police? Had he confronted his driver and the situation got out of control?

While it was a believable scenario, it didn’t explain the tattoo needle or the gloves. How would he get those? Chip didn’t seem that enterprising. In fact, I was having a hard time seeing in him what Elise had. Money could only go so far. Which was probably why she turned her sights elsewhere.

But then my train of thought veered onto another track. Where had Chip been this afternoon? He was drunk now, but was that just a reaction? Was it a cover-up, an alibi?

I was watching way too much TV.