Ink Flamingos

by Karen E. Olson

  I indicated the DO NOT DISTURB Sign hanging on the door handle. “Maybe he’s still sleeping,” I suggested. “We could come back later.”

  Harry shrugged and knocked again.

  Suddenly, the door swung open, startling me enough that I stepped back.

  A man wearing a flowing Chinese silk robe that was open to reveal a buff, naked torso above black silk boxers stared angrily at us.

  “What do you want?” he bellowed.

  “Hey, Sherm, it’s me.” Harry put his hand out, like it was some sort of business meeting.

  Sherman Potter blinked a few times, checking out Harry before his eyes ran up and down my body. I shivered, and not in a good way. It was as though he were pinching me with his eyes. I was ready to get back on that elevator and swear off any more snooping for the rest of my life, so help me God. Sister Mary Eucharista, my grade school teacher at Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy, would approve.

  But then Sherman Potter stepped forward and pulled Harry into a big bear hug.

  “I thought it was the cops again. I’ve been avoiding them all morning.”

  Chapter 8

  Avoiding the cops didn’t sound like a very good idea. Neither did coming here, after all. But before I could backtrack to the elevators and make my escape, Harry had dragged me into the room with him and the door closed behind us.

  It was a mess. The curtains were pulled shut, although a small sliver of light still managed to slip through and pooled on the floor. Clothes were strewn everywhere; a suitcase lay open near the wardrobe; stray shoes were scattered. A pizza box sat on the desk, the aroma of pepperoni and onions permeating the air. Instead of disgusting me, as it should, it made me hungry. I hadn’t had lunch yet.

  Two champagne flutes sat side by side next to the pizza box; a bottle floated in water that had clearly started out as ice. Their presence, and the sound of the shower being turned off, indicated that Sherman might have been avoiding the police, but he had company.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sherman asked, pulling the champagne bottle out of the water and managing to pour a few drops into one of the flutes. He picked it up and raised it, as if he was giving a toast.

  Harry stared at the glass, and I could see he was wishing there were more to go around.

  “I asked Harry to bring me up here,” I started, when it was clear Harry wasn’t going to answer.

  Sherman Potter leered at me. Really. Like Harry was loaning me out for the afternoon. I shook off my disgust and said quickly, “I wanted to know how to reach Daisy—I mean, Dee Carmichael’s family to express my sympathies.”

  The leer turned into an expression of curiosity. “And you are?’

  I didn’t want to shake this man’s hand, so I merely shoved my hands in my pockets and said, “Brett Kavanaugh. I did all of Daisy’s—um, Dee’s tattoos.”

  “Even the one that killed her?”

  The voice came from behind. A tall redhead was wrapped in a very small white towel, her hair wet and hanging down around her shoulders. Her face was long, horselike, if I were going to be mean like a middle school girl, but her eyes turned her rather plain features into something spectacular: They were big and clear blue, as if she’d invested in those colored contact lenses. Which she may have.

  It helped, too, that she had a spectacular body that the towel was doing nothing to conceal.

  Harry looked like someone had slapped him silly. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off her. If I were a guy, I probably would be gaping, too. But since she’d basically just accused me of murdering Daisy, I wasn’t exactly her biggest fan.

  “I haven’t heard how Daisy died,” I said matter-of-factly.

  The girl, and I say that because she didn’t look more than twenty-one, cocked her head at Sherman. “He said that’s how she died. That’s what the police told him.” She cast an eye at Harry, as if daring him to say something to her.

  Sherman Potter apparently had better police sources than I did, which was bothersome, since my own brother had stonewalled me.

  “I thought you were avoiding the police,” I said to Sherman.

  He shot me a look that told me to shut up. He didn’t know me very well.

  The girl sidled past me and Harry, brushing up against him so the towel slipped a little. He blushed as she adjusted it, but not before he got a glimpse of what was beneath it. I could tell he’d be good for nothing now.

  “I didn’t get your name,” I said as she crossed the room, picked up a pack of cigarettes, and slid one out. Great. Now we’d all get secondhand smoke poisoning.

  “I didn’t give it,” she retorted, lighting a match and putting it to the cigarette in her mouth. She blew out the match in a perfect smoke ring. If I hadn’t been so grossed out, it might have impressed me.

  “Might as well tell her. Everyone’s going to know soon enough anyway,” Sherman said to her, turning to me and saying, “She’s the Flamingos’ new lead singer.”

  Boy, he moved fast. Daisy was barely dead, and he already had a replacement. He saw the look on my face and shook his head.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said. “Daisy told me a month ago she was leaving the band. I’ve been auditioning potential replacements ever since.”

  The word “audition” seemed to have a different definition for Sherman Potter than it did for most people.

  “Congratulations.” Harry finally found his voice, but he couldn’t tear his eyes off the girl, who remained nameless. She was batting her lashes back at him, and there was suddenly a tension in the room that Sherman and I were not a part of. Didn’t really blame her, for while Sherman wasn’t a bad-looking guy, he had to be at least twenty years older than she was, and Harry probably didn’t need any blue pills to help him out.

  Sherman, however, was not to be usurped, and he went over to her and slung his arm around her shoulder, again dislodging the precariously held towel. She shifted it up and tightened it again, taking another drag off her cigarette.

  “She’s amazing,” Sherman said, and I wasn’t sure whether he was talking about her musical skills or another talent that we would not be privy to. “Dee was a little too girl-next-door for the Flamingos. She didn’t quite fit.”

  I didn’t remind him that Daisy had started the Flamingos on her own, that he had been the afterthought when the band had already had some success on YouTube. I didn’t see the same charisma in this girl that Daisy had. True, Daisy was more girl-next-door, despite the goth/punk costumes, but this girl was just pure sex. Sadly, she probably would be a success.

  “Do you have Daisy’s family’s information?” I asked, eager now to get out of here.

  Sherman picked a cell phone up off the table behind him and hit a few keys. “I’ve got a phone number in Maine.” He jotted it down with a hotel pen on a piece of hotel notepaper and handed it to me. “Will that do?”

  I stuck the piece of paper in my back pocket. “I appreciate it.”

  “You could’ve just called,” he reminded me.

  “Would you have answered the phone?” I shot back at him.

  Sherman Potter gave a short shrug. “Probably not.”

  The nameless girl stuck her cigarette in the top of a soda can, and we heard it sizzle as it hit the remnants of the liquid. This was way too disgusting for me. It was time to leave.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said politely, as my mother would want, and tugged on Harry’s arm to indicate he should stop staring now.

  He looked down at me as though seeing me for the first time. “Oh, right, yes, nice to meet you.” And he flashed her a brilliant smile, which she returned. Again, there was that tension. It was like a bolt of lightning had struck in the middle of the room.

  “Up for a drink later, Harry?” Sherman asked, escorting us to the door, eager to see us leave. Or, more likely, eager to see Harry leave.

  Harry grinned and looked back at the girl, who was now perched on the edge of the table in such a way that we had a clear view of a rose tattoo on the
inside of her thigh. She gave Harry a short nod and didn’t make any move to adjust the towel this time.

  “Always up for it,” Harry said as Sherman opened the door and practically shoved us out, although I wasn’t quite sure what he’d always be up for: a drink or that girl. Probably both.

  “I’ll be at Cleopatra’s Barge again tonight,” Sherman said, the door open merely a crack now. “Ainsley’s singing. You can check her out.”

  And the door slammed shut, leaving us in the hallway.

  “I think we already checked her out,” Harry quipped.

  But I wasn’t thinking about that.

  Her name was Ainsley.

  What were the odds?

  Chapter 9

  I knocked on the door, but no one came to answer it this time. It was as though no one was home, even though we knew Sherman and Ainsley were in there.

  “He wanted to get rid of us pretty quick,” Harry said, his usual smile gone as he considered the reason.

  I stood, uncertain what to do. I wanted to talk to Ainsley. I wanted to ask her about that blog. The one with my pictures on it. The one that had the comment about how I’d been responsible for Daisy’s death. Which it seemed she might agree with, because she’d asked if I did the tattoo that killed her.

  She knew who I was, and she’d been reluctant to tell me who she was. She had to be the blog’s Ainsley.

  “We might as well get going,” Harry said regretfully. We made our way to the elevators and back down without any conversation. I was preoccupied with Ainsley. I bet Harry was, too, but for different reasons than me.

  We walked along the canal toward the shop, our strides matching step for step. Just before we reached it, though, I stopped and put my hand on Harry’s arm.

  “Tonight. I want to go see her sing,” I said. “Are you free?”

  Harry grinned. “What else do I have to do? What time?”

  I didn’t want to miss anything, but I did have a client coming in at eight and it would be at least a couple hours. I told myself that things didn’t get hopping in Sin City until at least eleven anyway.

  “Meet me at the shop at ten thirty?”

  “It’s a date.”

  And as I heard those words and saw the way Harry was looking at me, I realized what I’d just done. While I merely wanted an excuse to go over there with Sherman Potter’s “old buddy,” Harry might be putting a little more weight on this than I meant. And when we got back to the shop, it was clear he was.

  “Brett and I are going out later,” he announced to Bitsy, who was sitting at the front desk toying with her cell phone.

  This was a totally bad thing. Because Bitsy can’t help herself. A wide smile spread across her face. “You’re going out on a date?” she asked eagerly. So much for her loyalty to Colin Bixby.

  Harry nodded. “I’m picking her up here at ten thirty.” Bitsy beamed.

  Now it would be all over. Joel would know. Ace would know. It could even spread as far as Murder Ink, and Jeff Coleman would find out. Bixby would hear about it. It would reach my brother, and even my mother in her retirement community in Port St. Lucie, Florida, would get the news.

  “I’ve got, um, work to do,” I said quickly, wanting to go hide in the staff room until my client showed up.

  “I’ll see you later,” Harry said, a suggestive tone in his voice.

  I nodded and didn’t look at him or Bitsy, just scurried toward the staff room. I was starting a stencil when Joel and Bitsy appeared in the doorway.

  “What?” I asked, irritation lacing my tone.

  Bitsy grinned. “You make a nice-looking couple.”

  “He’s had a crush on you forever,” Joel added.

  Before I could react to that, Bitsy spoke again. “This is why you blew off the good doctor, isn’t it?” She rolled her eyes. “That relationship has been so doomed from the get-go. I’m glad you’re branching out.”

  I had to stop her. “Harry’s gone, isn’t he?” I asked. They nodded.

  “Well, let me tell you what’s really going on,” I said, launching into the story about Sherman Potter and the Flamingos’ new lead singer, Ainsley, who had to be—just had to be—the blogger who put those pictures up of me and Daisy. “And she’s a redhead,” I said, that small fact just dawning on me. What if she was the one who was seen leaving Daisy’s room at the Golden Palace? Where her “boyfriend,” Sherman Potter, just happened to be making some sort of deal?

  It was all coming full circle, and I realized I should call Tim about it.

  Joel had sat down at the table and was frowning at me. “You think you’ve got this all figured out?” he asked.

  I shrugged. Seemed so.

  “What’s this about this girl taking over for Daisy? Did Daisy ever mention that she wanted to leave the band?” Joel asked.

  “He said she told him a month ago. I haven’t seen her since October.” It was February now, the end of February. While it was possible she’d decided to leave the band, it still nagged at me. She’d started the Flamingos. She was the driving force behind the band. I thought about the other four girls: Cara, Melanie, Tiffany, and Josie. Where were they? Did they know about Ainsley? Did they know about Daisy?

  They must know by now.

  “Do you really want to go out with Harry?” Joel asked. “I mean, I could’ve gone over there to Cleopatra’s Barge with you.”

  “Believe me, I’d rather go with you,” I said. “It’s just that I said I wanted to go and the next thing, we were going together.” So it didn’t exactly happen like that, but it was close. “Why don’t you come with us?”

  “I don’t want to step on Harry’s toes.” He was teasing. He had to be teasing. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and I was relieved. Yes, teasing.

  “You can step on his toes. Please.”

  “Okay. I’ll go, but he’ll probably be disappointed when he sees me.”

  I didn’t much care. And it would kill two birds with one stone, too, since if Joel came along, no one could say I was stepping out on Bixby. While I was uncertain about the future of our relationship, I didn’t want to create trouble.

  I picked up my cell phone. “I’m calling Tim.” As I spoke, I punched his number into the phone.

  “What is it now, Brett?” Tim never said hello, just like Jeff Coleman never said good-bye.

  “Did you know that Daisy was being replaced in the band? By someone named Ainsley? And she’s a redhead?”

  He was silent. I’d gotten his attention.

  Then, “How do you know this?”

  I told him all about Sherman Potter. When I was done, I heard his short intake of breath.

  “How do you manage it?” he asked.

  “Manage what?”

  “To get involved even when you’re not involved?”

  “I am involved,” I said. “I mean, the redhead thing and the tattoo ink made you call me in the first place. Flanigan wanted me to keep my ear to the ground. Well, I did, and here’s the information I managed to get.”

  He chuckled. “All within a couple hours. You’re amazing, little sister. I will pass this along. But promise me, you’re not going to go over to Cleopatra’s Barge tonight, are you?”

  I hadn’t mentioned my “date” with Harry. Didn’t think there was a reason to, until now. “Um . . .”

  “I don’t want you there. And if I see you anywhere near the place, I’ll carry you out myself.”

  Now this was something I hadn’t anticipated. “You’re going to go over there?”

  “We’re investigating a murder, Brett. Of course I’m going to go over there.”

  “Murder?” I felt my heart start to pound a little faster. “So she was murdered?”

  He was quiet a second, probably trying to figure out how to get around this, since he probably didn’t mean to say anything in the first place but screwed up. Then, “It’s looking like that, yes.”

  “How?”

  “She had an allergic reaction to something, Bre
tt. Anaphylactic shock. Her throat closed up and she couldn’t breathe. If she’d gotten to a hospital, they probably would’ve been able to save her.”

  My brain was hung up on the words “allergic reaction.”

  He kept talking.

  “Considering what you told us about her allergy to red dye and the symptoms and that infected tattoo, we think that’s what killed her.”

  Chapter 10

  “You think,” I said.

  “Nothing’s official until the autopsy results come in, but she had an allergic reaction to something,” Tim said. “So this is why you have to stay completely out of it now. You’re in the clear, but this Ainsley person who now happens to be a redhead who happens to be taking Dee Carmichael’s place in the band is definitely on my radar.”

  Seemed he had a suspect and a clear motive all rolled up into one, thanks to yours truly. But instead of feeling happy that justice would be served, I felt a little deflated. I still wanted to confront Ainsley Wainwright about those pictures of me on her blog.

  I said as much to Tim.

  “Don’t worry, little sis. We’ll cover that, too.”

  Like I said, all wrapped up.

  It was so unsatisfying, though.

  I had no way to reach Harry Desmond to let him know I wouldn’t be going with him tonight. I sent Joel home when Bitsy left, because his services wouldn’t be necessary after all. Ace had left earlier because he had a legitimate date. I tried calling Bixby back, but just got his voice mail. Guess I deserved that. I didn’t leave a message.

  I was cleaning up my room, throwing ink pots and used needles away, when I heard the bell on the door. I hadn’t locked up, since we were technically still open, but when we didn’t have any late clients, we would close early on occasion.

  I figured it must be Harry and braced myself to explain the situation as I went out to the front to meet him.

  But it wasn’t Harry.