Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

“That’s great.”

“I’m doing it for you, Kavanaugh.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I got tired of you telling me to put out my butts.”

He couldn’t be serious. Could he? The problem was, I really couldn’t tell. And he knew it, too. He started to laugh.

“I had a doctor’s appointment last week. The doc suggested it. Said I might not want to die of cancer or anything.”

“I’m glad you’re listening to him,” I said, still not sure how he wanted me to respond.

“Are you really glad, Kavanaugh? Would you miss me if I kicked?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

I turned my head and stared out the window. Would I miss him? Maybe. Jeff Coleman had grown on me since our first encounters, when we totally hated each other. He constantly teased me about my “upscale” shop and how I thought I was “too good” for a shop like Murder Ink. I knew my mother would tell me that he wouldn’t tease me if he didn’t like me, but the whole idea of girls suffering through boys’ teasing just because the girls think the boys like them seemed to be a precursor for women getting into abusive relationships. Oh, he verbally abuses you? He does it only because he likes you; so live with it.

I’d like to think that women had advanced past that since it was the twenty-first century now, but unfortunately that sort of thing has never changed.

Jeff took a toothpick out of his front shirt pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, chewing gently on it. His eyes were on the road, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as if to music.

The radio was off.

It didn’t take too long to get to That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. I knew it right away. The big white plastic heart sign hovered over the building, red and pink plastic ribbons weaving through the name of the chapel. And underneath, WEDDING CHAPEL flashed like a strobe. Below that, DRIVE-THROUGH, smaller. The building itself was long and squat, a long driveway, not unlike a bank drive-through, extending along the front of the building and out toward the side. The overhang dripped greenery and flowers, and as we pulled in, I could see they were fake. And not of very good quality, either. The stucco had been white at one point, but time had tinged it with gray.

It bothered me that Sylvia and Bernie had chosen this worn-out remnant as the place where they’d exchanged vows. Maybe they should’ve gone across the street to the chapel that had a bigger-than-life cutout of Elvis in a tux and doing a dance move over the entrance.

Surprisingly, however, there were three cars in line at That’s Amore as we turned the corner. And then I saw the probable reason why: a sign advertising a special rate of twenty-five dollars if you had your own car.

Up ahead, I could see a Dean Martin impersonator singing in front of the first car parked at a small window. The bank analogy wasn’t far off the mark. As we got closer, the impersonator’s voice rang through the open car windows.

He wasn’t half bad. Actually, it sounded pretty good. Not better than Dino, of course, but close enough to make someone’s wedding day special. If they chose this particular type of nuptials.

Even if he had been awful, I wasn’t one to judge. My voice was flat and lacking any sort of lyrical sound.

A white stretch limo was parked along the driveway, “That’s Amore” in red cursive letters sliding across its side and the address of the chapel below, along with its phone number.

Looking ahead, I saw a couple on a motorcycle in the rear of the line, a big black SUV in front of it, and a sporty convertible at the window. That was the one being serenaded, and the bride had a long white veil over her head as she stood on the seat, waving something that acted as a bouquet but clearly wasn’t. It was bulkier and very possibly yellow. I squinted to see what it was. I didn’t want to ask Jeff to drive closer, or he’d think I was truly interested in this.

“What’s that?” he asked, echoing my own thoughts.

“It’s a bunch of bananas.” We hadn’t heard him approach. He wore a tuxedo identical to the one Ray Lucci had worn in my trunk.

“Bananas?” I asked.

“She’s from one of those islands-Costa Rica, I think. It’s a tribute to her heritage.” The man spoke seriously, as if this were perfectly normal. “You here for a ceremony?”

Jeff nodded. “That’s right.”

“Pay here, and it’s only a short wait,” he said.

I figured Jeff would give him some song and dance about how we were just checking this out, but instead he pulled out his wallet, handing over a fifty-dollar bill. As if we really were going to get married after all.

The fact that I started to hyperventilate did not escape the man in the tux as he handed Jeff his change. He leaned into the window and cocked his head at me as he asked Jeff, “Cold feet?”

I’d say freezing feet was more like it.

“Do you have a ladies’ room or something where she might be able to freshen up?” Jeff asked, his voice perfectly normal. As any groom would be concerned about his bride.

At the thought, even more panic bubbled up in my chest, and I tried to catch my breath.

“Your head between your knees,” Jeff said, his hand on the back of my neck, forcing me down. “Breathe deeply.”

With my head down, I couldn’t see him, but I heard him say, “I think we really do need a ladies’ room.”

“Park over there,” the man said, “and go in the front door.”

The car jerked around and then stopped again, and Jeff cut the engine.

“Kavanaugh, that was brilliant,” he whispered.

I peeked up over my knee.

“You paid him,” I said, barely able to hear myself over my pounding heart.

“Best way to get information,” he whispered. “Now get out of the car and keep pretending like you’re going to be sick.”

“Who’s pretending?” I hissed as I pushed open the car door.

I missed the glass doors in the front because potted palms practically covered them. I guess they didn’t want just anyone wandering in and preferred that patrons stay in their cars.

The foyer was dingy white with a pink tinge, the color of underwear that got caught in the color wash. I could hear the strains of “That’s Amore” coming from somewhere, probably the Dean Martin outside. I wondered whether it was Dan Franklin.

The man in the tux materialized suddenly next to me. He took my arm and led me to a door with a cutout image of a bride on it. “Here you go,” he said.

I glanced back at Jeff, who nodded. I didn’t want to go in there. I wanted to stay out here while Jeff asked this guy questions. But maybe this was Jeff’s plan all along. I was only a pawn in his own investigation. He certainly couldn’t come to a wedding chapel all by himself.

I went into the bathroom. I didn’t have much choice.

This room was no more inviting than the foyer. The same dingy walls, old-fashioned sink and vanity. It was a one-seater, everything in one room. It was clean; had to give them that.

But it wasn’t soundproof. I could hear Jeff outside.

“Heard that one of your singers got murdered.”

Silence for a second, then, “Oh, yeah, Ray. He was an ex-con.” He said it as though all ex-cons find themselves murdered at some point. “The cops were here all afternoon yesterday. Bad for business.”

“Who owns this place? Seems like it would be a gold mine.”

“It is. And I do. Own the place. Anthony DellaRocco.”

“Great idea with the Dean Martins.”

“A wig and a tux, and any guy can look like Dino.”

“But they all can’t sing, can they?”

“They can all act drunk.”

I wished Jeff would get on with it. All this chitchat about Dean Martins and who owns the place-who cared? We were here to find out about Lucci, weren’t we?