Karen Olson - The Missing Ink

“I’m on my way back,” I said when I called Bitsy as I waited in line for a crepe. Might as well have lunch first; who knew when I’d get another chance?

“It’s okay. You don’t have to hurry. I’ve got a lot of it done already.”

I was incredibly grateful. Bitsy and I had had a hard start when I bought the shop from Flip. She was convinced I was enemy number one and would fire everyone and bring in my own people. She had a chip on her shoulder bigger than she was, which almost made me take her up on her prediction. But she’s incredibly efficient and ran Flip’s shop like clockwork for ten years. I couldn’t let her go. Gradually, we began to grow on each other. Except for that stool.

“Have you heard about Ace?” I asked.

“Joel called a little bit ago. Ace had a concussion, so they’re going to keep him overnight. But he’s doing okay, keeps asking for oxygen. So how did it go with Coleman?”

“He never showed. He called me with some crazy thing about how Matthew had trashed the shop looking for something, but he was sure he hadn’t found it. If you see anything that might warrant someone breaking in and beating up Ace, let me know.”

“Nothing here that’s not familiar,” she said. “But I’ll keep an eye out.”

I ended the call after telling her I’d be there shortly and was walking out onto the sidewalk, back toward the Venetian, when my cell phone warbled.

Simon Chase’s number. I flipped the phone open.

“Now that you’ve gotten rid of that wire, we can talk, Kavanaugh.”

I whirled around, looking for Tim, but seeing nothing but a sea of tourists.

“He’s long gone.”

“Where are you?”

Jeff Coleman fell into step beside me, his phone to his ear, a grin on his face. We hung up at the same time.

“My brother’s not happy you have Simon Chase’s phone,” I said.

“And he’s really not going to be happy when you bring it back to Chase.” He dropped the phone into my bag.

“Why am I doing that?” I asked. “I don’t want to see him.”

“It’s your way into Versailles.”

“And why do I want to go there? The last time you sent me there, I found a dead guy in a tub.” Which reminded me… “What did you and Matt Powell talk about?”

“He told me to watch my back.”

I stopped short and a heavyset man slammed into me. He growled and moved past. I grabbed Jeff’s arm and pulled him through the door into O’Shea’s Casino.

“Watch your back? Why?”

Jeff gave me a wan smile. “Seems he was acquainted with my ex-wife.”

“He knew Kelly? How? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You didn’t ask. And anyway, if you knew, you might have told your brother, and the cops would have had even more of a reason to nail me.”

I studied Jeff’s face, which was remarkably free of any emotion, except perhaps a slight tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t do that tat, did you?”

Disgust replaced the amusement. “Kavanaugh, I don’t touch dead people.”

“So who did it?”

Jeff shrugged. “Maybe Kelly did it.”

Kelly? I didn’t get a chance to react, though, because Jeff kept talking.

“All I know is, this guy called me, asked me to meet him in the Bastille Lounge at Versailles, it was about Kelly. I met him-his name was Matt. He said Kelly had been in over her head, that she’d done something she shouldn’t have.” He bit his lip. “I guess he knew she was pregnant, but he never said exactly what it was she’d done. I figured she’d just screwed the wrong guy one way or another, same old story for her. I told him I hadn’t seen her in a long time, but he said I should watch out, that she was up to something.”

“Did he know about the embryos?”

Jeff bit his lip and nodded. “Thinking about it now, he had to have known about that.”

“But why would he warn you? What was she going to do?”

“I don’t know. While we were talking, someone came into the bar, a young guy, maybe thirty, tops. Rich-looking. Matt said he had to go, but he’d call me later. He went over to the other dude, who was pissed about something; his face was all red. They left together.”

“Was it Chip Manning?”

Jeff shrugged. “Maybe.”

“His face has been all over the news because of Elise,” I said.

“I haven’t exactly been pinned to the TV, if you haven’t noticed, Kavanaugh.”

“Yeah, right. Sorry.”

We started walking again. The air wrapped itself around us like a fleece blanket. I still hadn’t gotten a water. I pondered Jeff’s story. It sounded like the truth, and the pieces were starting to fall together.

“What about Matthew, Kelly’s brother?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t he have contacted you if Kelly was in trouble?”

Jeff chuckled. “Matthew and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”

“How would Matt Powell even know about you, though?”

“If he knew Kelly, she might have told him.”

True enough. And if Matt Powell was Elise Lyon’s Matthew, and Kelly and Elise knew each other, then it was like one big, happy family. Until Matt and Kelly ended up dead.

Maybe Elise killed them. Nothing would surprise me now.

“So why do you think I’m going to Versailles?” I asked.

“You have to give Simon Chase back his phone.”

“Why?”

“You’ll look like a hero, Kavanaugh, getting his phone back. Maybe he’ll want to suck face with you again.” The grimace was probably supposed to be a grin.

I ignored him. “So you have no idea why Matthew trashed my shop?”

He shrugged. “Something’s there. Don’t know what.” He sounded like a broken record. “Listen, I’ve got to get going. I’ll be in touch.” And before I could say anything, he was halfway across the street, jogging toward the Bellagio.

I stood there, staring after him for a few seconds, then continued back to the Venetian.

If Matthew thought I had something he wanted, that could explain why he’d been following me around. Maybe he thought I’d lead him to it.

But then, why was Simon Chase following me in that Dodge Dakota?

I’d seen them together. Chase and Matthew. They could be in on it together.

Despite the heat, a chill crept up my spine.

I might have a reason to go to Versailles after all.

Bitsy was right. She had done a lot of work while I was gone, which made me feel guilty. I didn’t need Sister Mary Eucharista on my shoulder today. I was doing a pretty good job of giving myself a guilt trip.

While I wiped up the last of the ink off the floor in Joel’s room, all the events of the last few days swirled around in my head. What had I gotten mixed up in? Everything that had happened had happened because a woman left her fiancé at the altar. She’d sneaked off in the night, taking someone else’s identity, and disappeared.

But I’d seen her. Last night. At Viva Las Vegas. Why was she still in town? If I were her, I’d be long gone by now.

I threw the sponges covered in ink in a bucket and surveyed the floor. It sparkled as if it had never been violated. Bitsy had taken care of the rest of the room, stacking all the ink pots in a row on the shelf, the disposables neat in their boxes, Joel’s tattoo machine perched and ready for the next customer.

I had to get Tim to give me my machine back. And the case, which was Ace’s.

I wondered if whatever it was Matthew had been looking for was in the case, which was why he didn’t find it here last night.

As I took the bucket out to the bathroom off the staff room and tossed the sponges in the sink to be cleaned, a cell phone started ringing. It wasn’t a familiar ring, not Springsteen or Bitsy’s “Dancing in the Streets.” Instead, it was a real ring, an old-fashioned sort of ring. A ring, well, with that low-toned, rough brrring brrring that you hear on British television.