Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

“Who?”

“He’s another Dean Martin. He’s married to Rosalie, Bernie Applebaum’s daughter.” I paused a second while Tim absorbed this last bit of information, and then said, “You know, I found Sylvia and Bernie.”

Tim looked as though his head were going to explode.

I quickly told him about seeing Sylvia at the Palazzo shops, her story about how they took a bus trip to Sedona and ended up back at the Venetian. “Jeff came to take them to the hospital to see Rosalie, because of Lou Marino’s accident.”

Tim didn’t say anything, but he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. He walked out to the living room, slid open the glass door to the outside patio, and stepped outside. As I drank my beer, I tried to hear what he was saying, but his voice was muffled. He was probably calling Flanigan to find out whether he knew about Sylvia and Bernie.

I’d left out the little bit about how Bitsy and I were almost run over. I wasn’t quite sure how to broach that, since he was already pretty upset with me and my amateur sleuthing and he didn’t know about our little trip to the university. But if I didn’t tell him, he’d be even angrier. As I rinsed out my empty beer bottle and put it in the recycling bin under the sink, I tried to figure out what I should say that would have the least impact.

Right.

Tim was closing his phone, coming back inside.

“Flanigan?” I asked, indicating the phone.

He nodded. “He saw them at the hospital.”

“So he knew about Lou Marino?”

Tim took a deep breath and nodded again. “He’s been keeping tabs on those wedding chapel guys. Guess this isn’t the first attempt on Lou Marino.”

“He got mugged and cut up,” I said without thinking.

“And how do you know that?” he asked, leaning toward me, his hands gripping the edge of the granite island countertop.

Uh-oh. But I couldn’t back out now.

“I met one of the other impersonators. Guy named Will Parker. He stopped in the shop.” I thought quickly and decided I had to lie. It was too bad I’d gotten rid of my rosary beads years ago. “He also told me someone tried to run him over. With my car .” I put a lot of emphasis on the last words. “Although he doesn’t know it was my car. But it seems pretty likely it was.”

Tim was nodding. I kept talking.

“This guy Parker said Ray Lucci had been a car thief and he was eyeing my car when Sylvia and Bernie drove up in it.”

He didn’t seem all that surprised for some reason with my revelations. He just kept nodding.

“This is why you can’t get involved in any of this,” he chided.

“But I did get involved,” I said, deciding now to come clean. “And someone knows it.” I was whispering now. “Someone tried to run me and Bitsy down in the parking lot at the university.”

Tim’s face grew red with anger. “And you didn’t think to tell me that first? What’s wrong with you? And what were you doing over at the university? No, let me guess. You were trying to find out about Dan Franklin. And then someone tries to run you down. Can’t you see this is dangerous? You need to let the police do their job and stay out of it.”

I sighed. He was right. Then something struck me. “Did you know about my car? That it almost ran over Parker? Did Flanigan tell you that?”

“I know you’ve got a personal stake in all this, Brett,” Tim said. He was trying to pull himself together, stay in control. “But you really have to stay out of it. There’s something I haven’t told you.”

All my muscles tensed. What more could there be?

“Ray Lucci’s fingerprints were found in your car.”

I blinked a couple of times. “Why wouldn’t his fingerprints be there? I mean, he was in my trunk.”

“No, Brett. His fingerprints were found on the gearshift, steering wheel, window controls, radio, and air-conditioning buttons. Flanigan thinks Lucci really did steal your car.”

“Do you think he was the one who tried to run down Will Parker?” I asked when it all sunk in. “Possibly.” He wanted to say something else, but stopped himself.

I didn’t have that much self-control. “So how did he end up strangled with a clip cord and in the trunk?” I asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Flanigan is, I mean.”

“Anyone else’s fingerprints in the car?”

“Only yours.”

The words swirled around in my head. “Flanigan doesn’t think I had anything to do with it, does he?”

“No.”

“But?” I sensed that there was a “but” in there somewhere.

“I am not happy you’re interfering with the investigation. Someone has already threatened you.”

“I don’t know anything, though. I didn’t find out anything.”

“Maybe you did and you don’t realize it.”

I pondered that a few seconds.

While I was pondering, Tim kept talking. “You’re not to do anything else pertaining to this case,” he said. “You are to go to work and come home, and that’s it. Understand?”

“You’re not my mother.”

“If you insist on poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, I’ll call Mom and have her come out here for a visit.”

There was no greater threat than that, and he knew it. He smiled smugly, because I knew he would do it. He totally would do it. And Mom would come out here and babysit me.

No, thank you.

Not that I didn’t have a good relationship with my mother. Other than the fact that she couldn’t deal with my choice of profession, we had a pretty decent relationship. Except when she was badgering me about how I should get married.

Okay, so we had some issues. Big issues. But she was my mom. It could be worse.

Tim was watching me.

“What?” I asked, irritated.

“Are you going to stay out of this and let Flanigan do his job?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, sliding off my chair. “I’m going to bed.”

“Hold on,” he said, putting his hand up.

I sat back down. “What now?”

“What can you tell me about the car that almost hit you and Bitsy?” His tone had changed; it was his cop voice, one that I hadn’t heard too many times.

As I told him about the blue car, what had happened, and how I didn’t get a license plate number or even the make of the car, he took notes in a notebook he pulled from his back pocket.

“I’ll give this to Flanigan,” he said, getting up and starting for the living room. “You can get to bed. I’m going to watch a little tube.” As I started to pass him, he reached out and held my arm for a second. “You know I’m only worried you’re going to get into trouble, right?”

I gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s not your fault you’re turning into Dad. It’s in the genes.”

I slipped out of his grasp as he rolled his eyes at me.

I was totally not responsible for what happened the next morning. I want to make that clear. I was minding my own business, reading the paper and having my coffee when the doorbell rang.

Sylvia stood on the doorstep, a small white car parked in the driveway behind her. Must have been that rental she told me about. She wore a long-sleeved T-shirt tucked into a cotton skirt. Tattoos crawled up out of the neck of the shirt and down her legs, but this was the most covered up I’d ever seen her.

“No one knows I’m here,” she said as she came into the house and closed the door after her.

“Why are you here, then?” I asked. “Do you want coffee?”

Sylvia smiled, patted her white hair, which was pulled up into a neat bun in the back, sans rhinestone butterfly clips today, and said, “My dear, if I have coffee, I’ll be in the bathroom all day, and I don’t have time for that.”