Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

It was those fingerprints on the gun again. Tim had a good reason to think it was Jeff. Physical evidence usually doesn’t lie. But I couldn’t shake my gut feeling that Chase might really be involved with all this. Maybe it was his baby. Maybe Kelly was in Vegas to see him. I remembered how Sylvia said Kelly couldn’t get pregnant. But sometimes miracles happened, didn’t they? There were stories like that all the time.

Joel was still eating doughnuts.

“If you hear anything from anyone about where Jeff Coleman might be, can you let me know?” I asked him.

Joel shrugged, and I thought that was the end of it. I turned as my next client came in, a woman who’d just turned forty who wanted a butterfly on her shoulder. I love midlife crises. They’re good for business.

But Joel stopped me, touching my shoulder and baptizing me with a little doughnut dust.

“I heard that Jeff Coleman’s holed up outside town at a Super 8.” He rattled off the address.

“Who’d you hear that from?”

He smiled, creating dimples in his cheeks. “Everyone’s talking about how the cops are looking for him.”

I could go out there after I had lunch with Chase. Which meant that I’d have to take my car again. That valet wouldn’t be happy to see me, but maybe he wasn’t working today.

“You can’t go alone.” Joel’s dimples had disappeared. “I’m going with you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but I’m going with you.”

“I’m seeing Chase first.”

“And I’ll pick you up at Versailles at two. That should give you enough time for lunch.”

I wanted to take my car, but Joel put a finger over my lips before I could say anything.

“You can walk over to Versailles, save some gas, and I’ll pick you up at two. End of conversation. You were followed yesterday; someone’s watching you, and I don’t want you to go alone. What if Coleman’s behind all this?”

I’d dismissed my fears when I talked to Tim, but Joel had a point, so I nodded. Chase could be behind this, too. I wasn’t ready to let my friends know about my suspicions. “Okay, fine. I’ll meet you at two in the lobby.”

The butterfly didn’t take me too long, only about an hour. It left me time to contemplate my outfit. I couldn’t go in the tank top and jersey skirt I was wearing. It was way too casual. I’d left my white trousers and purple silk top here yesterday, along with the fabulous red shoes. But walking in those shoes wasn’t a good idea. I tried on the slacks with my Tevas, and the pants dragged a little on the ground, but I’d have to live with it. I dumped the red heels into my messenger bag.

Joel “tsk-tsked” when I emerged, frowning at the bag.

“It’s all I’ve got,” I said, “and I don’t have time to shop.”

He conceded, but it was difficult for him.

I indicated my skirt and tank on the table. “Bring those with you, okay? I want to be comfortable when we go see Jeff.”

It was hot outside, and the silk top was sticking to my chest. The dragon looked like it was crying, but it was just tears of sweat. I was afraid my trousers would have sweat marks all over them, and in unfortunate places. By the time I reached Versailles, my makeup had slid off for sure, making me feel as if I looked like one of those melting faces at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark .

It’s a dry heat.

Right.

I didn’t go straight to the restaurant when I got to Versailles. Jarred by the mirrors and my reflection, I found the ladies’ room tucked in a little corner just past the front desk around the corner from the casino.

A very busty young woman with a tall wig of white hair piled on top of her head was applying a thick layer of red lipstick. Her face had been powdered almost as white as the wig. She grinned at me when I walked in.

“Nice tat,” she said, lifting her short skirt-she must be one of those cocktail waitresses-and showing off Sylvester the cat and Tweety Bird on the side of her thigh.

I’d admonished Tim for thinking that there was some sort of tattoo “club,” but anyone with ink invariably noticed everyone who shared their penchant for the needle.

I ducked into one of the stalls-not your typical restroom stall, either, but one with a white-paneled door and gilt knob. The toilet was European, with a little golden bulb you had to pull up on in order to flush. I was surprised there wasn’t a bidet.

The cocktail waitress was still primping when I emerged and surveyed my face in the mirror. It had melted a bit, and I rummaged in my bag, pulling out a small Baggie with some lip gel, blush, foundation, and mascara. My hand caught on the red patent-leather pumps, and I dropped them on the floor.

“Great shoes,” the waitress said, “but your face is a mess.”

Nothing like being blunt.

“Let me help.” She frowned at my Baggie, then washed my face with a wet, cold towel-a real one, not paper-pulling the remains of my makeup off. “Have to start over, sweetheart.”

Within seconds, she’d put foundation on, then a little blush. She took my mascara wand and expertly created lashes where there had been none. She squirted some hair gel from her own bag and ran it through her fingers and then through my hair, making it spiky. It matched the tats and the rows of silver earrings in my ears, but not the purple silk blouse.

“I feel like two people,” I said, mostly to myself.

She laughed. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” I said, holding out my hand. “Brett Kavanaugh.”

“Robbin Seipold.”

I took one of my business cards out of my bag and handed it to her. “Robbin, come into the shop and your next tat’s on me. For making me look great for my date.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Really?”

I held my finger and thumb an inch apart as I smiled. “A small one.”

“Better than nothing,” she said with a grin. “Lunch date, huh? I’ve got one after work. Rich guy.”

“Better rich than poor.”

“This one’s really rich. Runs this place. I brought him a cocktail and we got to talking. And then he asked me out.”

It had to be Chase. Who else ran this place?

I kicked off my sandals and stuck my feet into the red shoes, my lunch date even less appetizing now.

“Hey, Robbin, really, stop in when you want,” I said, eager to get out of there.

My mood didn’t improve, either, as I approached Giverny.

Standing just beyond the restaurant entrance was Simon Chase.

He was arguing with the bald tattooed guy. Matthew.

I hid behind a huge plant in the hall, watching them. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, even though I was trying. People were passing me, talking, laughing, interrupting.

“What are you doing here?”

I stiffened, turning slowly, not recognizing the voice.

Chip Manning’s head was cocked to one side, a twitch playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re that tattoo woman. You found Matt yesterday. You saw Elise.”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you hiding?” He peered past me, not waiting for an answer, then chuckled. “Checking up on Simon?” He stepped closer to me, and I could smell the booze on him, but he wasn’t acting drunk. It might just be left over from yesterday.

“I’m meeting him for lunch,” I tried to say casually, but it felt like I had a piece of wool wrapped around my tongue.

“Then why are you spying on him?”

“I’m not spying on him. I thought I saw something on the ground over here.” I made a stupid show of looking around, then putting my hands up and shrugging. “Guess not.”

“Elise spied on him, too.”

A little tidbit of information I hadn’t asked for, but it was interesting all the same. “Really?” I prodded.