Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

That was a problem, definitely. I’d already told Tim about the phone conversation, so I couldn’t now say, Hey, Dan also dropped the fact that he works with rats; you might want to check that out. I would need a better reason as to how I knew this, and not from messing around in the Dean Martin locker room at That’s Amore.

“I’ll figure something out,” I said as I looked at my watch. It was almost noon. “Listen, I have to get to the shop. If you hear anything about Sylvia, call me. And I’ll let you know how it goes with Parker.”

“Who?”

I made a face at him. “Mr. Studly, as you insist on calling him.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and I wanted to leave before he thought of some other smart-aleck thing to say.

As I reached for the door, it opened, and a woman came in.

She wasn’t as tall as me, but she was close. She had long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a pair of large sunglasses, dark jeans and a white button-down cotton shirt, buttoned almost too high, and a long strand of red beads bouncing against an ample chest.

She looked a little too high-class for Murder Ink.

Except when she took off the sunglasses to reveal a dark bruise circling her right eye.

When she saw me staring, her face went white, as if she’d seen a ghost.

I knew why.

I couldn’t remember her name, but about a year before I’d tattooed two ribbons circling her left biceps. One ribbon was white, the other purple.

Both signified that she had been physically abused and survived.

I nodded at her, but before either of us could say anything, Jeff spoke up.

“Rosalie, what are you doing here? Did they find my mother and your father?”

Rosalie? As in Bernie Applebaum’s daughter?

Giving me an anxious look begging me not to reveal I knew who she was, Rosalie worried the edge of the sunglasses with long fingers tipped with short-clipped nails.

“I haven’t heard a word,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I was hoping you’d have some news.”

Jeff went over to her and patted her on the forearm. “I went out to the canyon. Stopped everywhere I could between here and there, but I couldn’t find them.”

“Have you heard any more from the police about their car?”

“No, I’m sorry.” And I could see in his face that he truly was. There was compassion there, and his own worry.

Hated to say it, but I liked Jeff Coleman better when he wasn’t quite so human. Made him easier to deal with.

Rosalie was looking at me out of the corner of her eye, and Jeff noticed.

“Rosalie Marino, Brett Kavanaugh.”

I smiled and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I said, hoping she’d see that I wasn’t about to out her.

She took my hand limply with a couple of fingers. “Yes, nice to meet you, too.”

“Brett’s helping with trying to track down my mother and Bernie,” Jeff explained.

Rosalie was still looking at me, and her eyes widened, but I shrugged and, before she could say anything, added, “So far, though, we’re hitting a brick wall.” I didn’t want to get into the whole Dan Franklin thing. If we found out for sure he had something do with Sylvia and Bernie, then that would be the time to mention him.

Rosalie looked back at Jeff and gave him a sad smile. “I’m on my way to work. Can you give me a call if you hear anything?” She pulled a piece of paper and a pen from her bag and scribbled down a number, handing it to Jeff.

He took it and held her hand for a second. “We’ll find them, Rosalie. Don’t worry.” His expression held a tenderness I’d never seen before, and her eyes filled with tears.

I shifted uncomfortably, uncertain what to do or say.

My cell phone made the decision for me as it warbled Bruce Springsteen from inside my bag.

It startled both Rosalie and Jeff, who seemed as though they had forgotten I was there.

I took the phone out of my bag, said, “I’ll be outside,” and flipped the phone open with one hand as I pressed the door with the other. Once on the sidewalk, I said, “What’s up, Bitsy?”

“It’s almost noon, and you’ve got a client coming in. Where are you?”

Who needed a mother with Bitsy around? The guilt started to seep in. Sister Mary Eucharista would make me write fifty times, I will not exploit my employees while I go messing around in other people’s business . Although admittedly, I’d been asked to help, so I could be perceived as being a good friend. Somehow I’m not sure the sister would’ve seen it that way, though.

“I’ll be there in a few,” I said. “I’m up here at Murder Ink. Bernie’s daughter just showed. She and Jeff are really worried.”

That was the way to turn it around on the guilt, because Bitsy immediately said, “So there’s still no word from them? Where do you think they might be?”

I quickly told her about our morning’s activities-going to the chapel and then to Dan Franklin’s house and finding it all closed up-and ended with my suspicion that Sylvia and Bernie had seen something they shouldn’t have.

I didn’t tell her what Tim had said about Ray Lucci being Sylvia’s son. Unlike Bitsy, I can keep a secret, and, anyway, I hadn’t really thought that one through yet. How that could’ve played a role in all this.

Because I had started wondering whether it didn’t play a role after all. It seemed as though it had to, but how, I wasn’t sure.

Bitsy didn’t notice I was holding back and latched on to the one thing I knew she probably would. “Are you going to call this Dean Martin guy? Are you going to see if he knows something?”

Before I got a chance to respond, she added, “You know, Brett, you’ve got the worst luck with men. Maybe this one will be different.”

She was referring to the two men who’d been in my life in the last six months: a casino manager, who was too much of a ladies’ man for my taste, and an emergency room doctor, whom I’d completely misread and, thus, had sabotaged something that might have been good.

“I met him for five seconds,” I said, getting defensive. “I have no idea if we’d get along or anything.”

“But you said he liked you.” Bitsy is the ultimate romantic. She’s been married a couple of times but never gotten bitter about it. She’s dated her fair share of men and recently signed up for Match.com because, as she put it, “What else am I supposed to do with my time?”

Bitsy was a serial dater.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The fact that she’s a little person was absolutely no deterrent for the men she dated, which I found fascinating. She dated little people and tall people.

She was still talking. “I think you should call him. Have lunch. Lunch is always good.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, watching Jeff and Rosalie through the front window. Rosalie had sunk down into one of Jeff’s chairs, and he was sitting across from her, his elbows on his knees, leaning over and talking. Her face was sagging with sadness.

“I’ll be in shortly,” I said again, hanging up on Bitsy.

I didn’t know whether I should go back in or just leave quietly. After a few seconds, I decided that leaving was the best thing. I didn’t want to intrude on their conversation. So I made my way over to the Bright Lights Motel and climbed into the Jeep. The gearshift stuck as I tried to put it into first, and I could hear the clutch grind.

I wanted my car back.

I couldn’t think about Jeff or Rosalie or Will Parker or any of it for the next couple hours. My client was already at the shop when I arrived, and I didn’t have time to say anything but a quick hello to Bitsy and Ace when I walked through the door. Joel was already with a client, and I gave him a little finger waggle as I passed his room.