Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

“She was crying when I met her. He broke her heart.”

I made a little “mmm” sound.

“And then she fell in love with me. Elise had a habit of falling in love with the wrong men.”

“Until you.”

He looked a little startled by that, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him before. “Well, yeah, I guess so, sure.”

He didn’t sound so sure to me, but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Still haven’t found her?”

His eyes skirted around me, past the plant and over to where Chase was still arguing with Matthew. “No. Police say she could be anywhere.”

“Not in Vegas anymore?”

“Might not be.” He was still focused on Chase.

“Do you have any idea why she left in the first place?”

His gaze swung back to me, his face dark with rage. “Why would I know that?” And he stormed off, leaving me more than a little confused. What had just happened here?

I should’ve asked him about Matt, his driver, but I’d lost that chance. I mulled over his comments about Simon Chase and Elise. So he’d broken her heart. He probably broke Kelly’s heart, too. Maybe worse.

I shivered, and it wasn’t just from the air-conditioning.

Sister Mary Eucharista was sitting on my shoulder again. She didn’t think it was a good idea to have lunch with Simon Chase, or to have anything to do with him ever again.

I debated taking her up on her advice. I had no business prying into Simon Chase’s life, running around trying to find out what I could about a missing woman. I had my own business to run.

But my curiosity was getting the better of me, not to mention my hormones. I watched Simon Chase from my hiding spot and remembered the way his eyes twinkled. Oh, why not. I’d get a nice meal out of it, anyway.

Just as I decided I’d come out of hiding, Matthew whirled around, his face looking much like Chip’s had just seconds ago. He saw me, his expression changing with the recognition, but just shook his head and walked away. Chase had already gone into the restaurant; he didn’t see me-or Matthew’s reaction to me.

The entrance to the restaurant had frosted-glass walls with illuminated Monet water lilies reflected on them, sort of like a very upscale and tasteful PowerPoint presentation. I walked in, and the water lily theme was repeated along the far wall, with realistic weeping willow trees adorning the far corners of the room. The ceiling was painted like the sky, with clouds and a hint of sunset. Illusion. It was all about illusion.

Chase was talking with the maître d’. His face brightened as he saw me, and he lightly touched my shoulder and gave me a kiss on each cheek-very European. I smiled and hoped I didn’t look as flustered as I was. His touch had sent an electric shock through me, despite my resolve to resist his charm.

This wouldn’t do. I was here to find out if he was a murderer. I couldn’t get all warm and fuzzy just because he turned me on by just looking at me. Granted, it could be argued that the way he looked at me would’ve unnerved any woman.

“You look gorgeous,” he said softly in my ear, and the warmth of his breath caressed my neck, causing me to again blush.

I reminded myself about Robbin, how she was going to see him later. That cooled those hot flashes.

We were seated at a corner table, away from everyone else. The waiter handed me a menu, but before I could take it, Chase took it and gave it back. He didn’t look at me as he said, “I’d like a bottle of Domaine St. Nicolas, 2004. We’ll each have a Caesar salad and the filet.”

The waiter scurried off, nodding. Looked like dinner for lunch today.

“I hope you don’t mind, but the wine is a Pinot Noir/ Cabernet Franc blend from Feifs Vendéens in Brem on the coast south of the mouth of the Loire. It’s superb.”

I had no choice but to believe him. “That’s fine,” I said, sipping my water.

“And I took a chance that you’re not a vegetarian.”

“Who could be?” I asked flippantly. His gaze was unnerving me again.

He leaned back in his chair. “You must think I’m terribly pretentious.”

“I don’t stereotype,” I said. “Don’t like double standards.”

“That’s why I like you.”

If I were in eighth grade, I’d be writing Mrs. Simon Chase over and over on my paper-bag book cover.

“You like a lot of women,” I said, meeting his eyes.

He grinned. “You’ve been checking up on me.”

“Why not?”

“Why not, indeed. So, ask your questions. I’m an open book.”

I wasn’t so sure. “You like celebrities, actresses. Models. Tattooists.” I let my tongue linger on the last word.

“You want to ask me about Kelly Masters.”

“You knew her real name?”

“That ‘K-C’ business was just that: business. In her personal life, she was Kelly.” He took a deep breath. “So why do you want to talk about her and not Elise?”

“Elise isn’t dead.” My words surprised even me, but they didn’t faze him.

“Do we know that?”

I wasn’t completely sure I’d heard him right. “Know what?”

“That she’s not dead.”

What was he implying? Did he know something I didn’t?

“You were the last to see her alive, I understand,” he said.

“The last one who’ll admit it.” The banter was putting me off guard. I was comfortable with Chase; he made me feel I could say anything.

Before I could add more, however, the waiter arrived with the wine. He made a great show of opening it, his hands trembling slightly as he offered a taste to the man who ran the place. Chase lifted the glass to his nose, sniffed, then sipped, swishing the wine around in his mouth before nodding.

The waiter poured me a glass, then poured more into Chase’s. He left without meeting my eye.

Chase lifted his glass, and we clinked.

“To delightful company,” he said, his eyes smoky as his tongue gently licked the rim of the glass. I wanted to be that glass, and he knew it. I was a lousy detective.

“So when was the last time you saw Kelly?” I asked.

Chase cupped his glass in his hand, staring at me over the top of it. “Four days ago. She was very much alive.”

“Did she tell you she was pregnant?”

The glass wavered slightly. “What?”

“Did you know Jeff Coleman?”

“Slimy little bastard,” he said. “But good at his job.” He tipped his glass toward me.

“He’s the one who sent me over here,” I said. “He was supposed to be here, not me, yesterday.”

“I suppose he has some explaining to do,” Chase said.

The salads arrived, perfect crispy Romaine with parmesan shavings and a tangy anchovy dressing.

“Did you know Matt Powell?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Did Elise know him?”

“Of course.” He took a sip of wine. “You think Matt was Elise’s lover?”

“The name fits the tattoo.”

“So his murder was a little tit for tat?”

Clever. I nodded. “It would make sense.”

“So who killed him?”

I thought about it a second, taking the time to savor my salad. “Chip, maybe.”

Simon laughed. “He couldn’t kill anyone. He can barely get through a day. I tried to tell Elise…” His voice trailed off.

“What did you tell Elise?” I asked, fork in the air. “You warned her not to marry Chip? Do you think she got cold feet and ended up here with Matt Powell and decided to marry him instead?” As I spoke, the scenario felt right. Except for one thing. Kelly Masters. “When did Elise meet Kelly?” It wasn’t completely a non sequitur.

He didn’t indicate that the change of subject bothered him. “As far as I know, they never knew each other.”

“So they didn’t meet through you?” I tried to read his face, but it showed me nothing.