That seemed to satisfy Joel, who was probably having the same issues with our discussion last night as I was. Bitsy, I noticed, was oddly silent.
Tim wasn’t at the police station, and no one would tell me where he was. Flanigan wasn’t there, either. I could assume they were out somewhere together, since they’d seemed a bit joined at the hip lately. Maybe they had a lead on the case.
Listen to me. I sound like I watch too much TV.
I didn’t leave my cell phone with the sergeant, like he suggested. There was way too much possibility that it would get lost or something, so I took it with me when we left for the shop.
Ace was hanging around out front when we showed up. He was holding a white box that caught Joel’s eye. The gate was still down over the glass door.
“Lost my key,” he said apologetically.
I didn’t like the sound of that. If he’d lost it, then someone could find it and get into the shop. Since my house had already been broken into, I didn’t want the shop suffering the same fate.
“You’d better find it,” I snapped sharply.
“I’ll launch a full-blown search in my apartment later,” Ace said, an edge to his tone that indicated I might have held back a little. I’d never talked to him like that before, and immediately I could hear Sister Mary Eucharista reminding me that everyone’s innocent until proven guilty.
I unlocked the gate and pulled it up and out of sight, then unlocked the door and let everyone in. We all headed to the staff room, where Bitsy and I stashed our bags and Ace put the box on the table, breaking the tape that held it shut.
“Pastries,” he announced.
We all leaned over to check them out. They were from Bouchon, a bakery downstairs that was affiliated with the fancy Thomas Keller restaurant of the same name up on the eighth level of the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes. Bouchon pastries were something special. I peered over at Ace, feeling even guiltier. He had taken one but hadn’t started nibbling on it yet.
Joel hadn’t waited that long. His was already half gone.
My pastry would have to wait. I needed to talk to Ace now. I gave Bitsy and Joel a look, and they got the message so they filtered out. Ace was following them when I said, “Ace, can I talk to you a minute?”
He paused at the door, flipping back his dark hair. He was incredibly handsome in a Greek god sort of way. Everything was symmetrical, even his tattoos, down to the fleur-de-lis on the tops of his hands.
“What’s up? I told you I’d look for the key.”
“It’s not about that. I know you’ll find it.” I sounded a lot more confident than I felt. “Are you moonlighting?” Might as well get it out in the open right away. Didn’t want to pull any punches.
Confusion crossed his face, then dismay. But he didn’t want to admit it. “What are you talking about?”
I might as well come clean. “I saw you last night. At the Flamingo. You were there with Harry Desmond. You had your case.”
He frowned. “So what of it?” A little more belligerent now.
I sighed. “I know Harry does parties. He used to work for Jeff; do you know that? And Jeff fired him.”
All pretense left his face. “He shouldn’t have, you know. Fired him, I mean. Harry’s a good tattooist. I told him he should ask for a job here.”
Like I’d hire him after what Jeff told me. After the other night. I felt myself blush a little as I thought about those kisses, how I’d almost gone home with him. And then out of the blue I thought about Jeff. I struggled to push the thoughts away and keep my focus on the matter at hand.
“Jeff fired him for a reason,” I said, making my voice all professional-like, the blush gone now. “I’m not sure you want your name associated with his, considering. And he never even told me that he’s a tattooist. So how could I hire him? He lied to us, said he got laid off at one of the casinos. It was all one big fabrication.”
Ace slumped a little, running a hand through that perfect hair. I could see he was debating something with himself, then finally he spoke.
“Today’s my last day.”
Chapter 37
I didn’t think I heard him right. “What?”
Ace sighed. “I’m quitting.”
I hadn’t meant for this to happen. “Why?” I managed to sputter, totally thrown off. “Not because of this?”
“I need more time to devote to my painting,” he said. “And I can make a lot of money at those tattoo parties.”
A lot? How much? I wanted to ask, wondering if this wasn’t a ploy. “Do you want a raise?” I asked, worried about what he’d demand. He made less than Joel, which was only right, because he hadn’t been with the shop as long, starting only a year before I bought Flip out, whereas Joel had been with Flip from the start, about ten years. I couldn’t possibly give Ace more and have it all be fair. And while business was still good, the recession had hit us a little, and I didn’t want to overextend and have to give everyone raises.
Ace shook his head. “No. I just want to leave. This isn’t my thing anyway; you know that. I really need to concentrate on my art.”
I thought about his comic book renditions of famous paintings. We’d sold a few, but not enough to warrant a full-time gig.
“I’m going to try to set up an exhibit,” he continued. “I need to establish myself, and I can’t do it here. Harry says—”
Little red lights went off in my head. “Harry? What does Harry have to say about this?”
“He says he knows someone who owns a gallery, who might want to set up something for me.”
Harry certainly knew a lot of people, didn’t he? First, it was Sherman Potter. Now it was some gallery owner. He’d infiltrated himself into our lives here at The Painted Lady in more ways than one. Maybe it was time to tell him to stop coming around. We were doing better before he showed up on our doorstep.
Bitsy popped into the staff room door. She cocked her head at Ace. “Your client’s here.”
He gave me an apologetic look and sidled past her toward his room and his client. Bitsy frowned at me.
“What’s going on?”
I told her.
She didn’t believe it, either. “What does he mean, he’s going to concentrate on his art? The man will starve.” Bitsy, always the realist, had never been one to mince words.
I nodded. “You’re right. But there’s something else at play here.” I told her about how Harry was encouraging it. “Maybe we need to discourage his presence here,” I finished.
“You can tell him now,” she said. When she saw my expression, she added, “He came in while you were in here talking to Ace. But I’ll warn you, he’s got a surprise for you.”
A surprise? For me? I didn’t need any more surprises, thank you very much. I followed Bitsy out to the front of the shop, where Harry was draped over the front desk as if he owned the joint. A huge vase of red roses sat on the desk. When Harry saw me, he straightened up and grinned.
“For you, milady,” he said in a mock English accent, waving his hand in front of the roses as if he were a game-show hostess showing off the latest model of refrigerator for a lucky winner.
I didn’t feel so lucky.
“You didn’t have to,” I said, stumbling over my words, since they were not the ones I wanted to utter. I wanted to tell him he was crazy, that he needed to go away. Now. But somehow, in the presence of those flowers and his lopsided, charming smile, I lost my resolve. Why did he have to be so affable that it was difficult to kick him out?
I glanced around for a little support, but Bitsy had disappeared. She probably didn’t want to see the bloodletting. If there was, in fact, any bloodletting at all.
Harry was talking. “Ace told me you’re having a tough time of it. That blog, those pictures . . .” His voice trailed off as a flush crept up his neck. He was embarrassed about it, too.
I finally found my voice. “Harry, this was really nice of you. Thank you.”
“And then your boyfriend broke up with you.
All because of it,” he continued.
I didn’t want to be reminded of Colin Bixby. Another failed relationship. It was a good thing I’d never mentioned him to my mother. She would’ve been so excited about the prospects of a son-in-law who was a doctor, and then so disappointed—again—that it didn’t work out.
I shook my head. “Don’t worry about me,” I said, forcing a smile. “It’s not your fault; you didn’t need to do this.”
Jeff Coleman had been convinced Harry Desmond was the devil incarnate, but I wasn’t so sure. Except for one thing. . .
“Ace tells me you’ve been encouraging him to give up his job here and have a gallery show with his paintings.”
Harry cast his eyes to the floor for a second; then he looked back up at me. “He’s really talented, but I didn’t think he’d leave the shop. I’m sorry. It’s just that I know this guy—”
I put up my hand to stop him. “You know a lot of guys, Harry,” I said. “Do you really think it’s someone who can help Ace, or is it a scam?”
Something crossed his face, but I couldn’t read it.
“No scam, Brett,” he said, putting up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
The door opened, and my first client of the day walked in. She grinned at me, and I turned away from Harry for a second to tell her to go to my room and I’d be there in a second.
“Harry, I’ve got to go,” I said.
His face broke out in a wide grin as he reached into the vase and pulled out a single rose and handed it to me. I had no choice but to take it.
Harry walked out through the glass doors.
“Why is it when I want to dislike him, he’s just so nice?” I asked when Bitsy appeared by my side. Being a little person, she tends to surprise me that way sometimes.
“You should have laid into him. Told him not to steal your employees for his own purposes,” Bitsy admonished.
“He bought me roses.”
“You don’t have any backbone. You should’ve left it to me. At least I didn’t make out with the guy, giving him the wrong impression.”
She was totally serious.
“He got me drunk on absinthe. It wasn’t my fault,” I said, although not too convincingly. Sister Mary Eucharista was rapping me on the knuckles and reminding me that I could’ve said no to that absinthe. No kidding.
I needed to get to my client, who was sitting in my chair, bopping her head to her iPod tunes. So much for providing magazines to pass the time. I sat in my swivel chair on wheels and slipped a new needle into the tattoo machine. I set out the little pots of ink. As I did so, I realized I’d left her stencil in the staff room. I got up, taking off the one glove I’d managed to pull on.
“Just a sec,” I said. “Have to get your stencil.”
She gave me a short nod, the wires from the iPod dancing as she moved.
My cell phone started ringing as I grabbed the manila folder with the stencil in it. I pulled it out of my bag and saw it was Tim.
“You didn’t leave your phone,” he said without saying hello.
“I didn’t want to leave it with just anyone. I asked for Flanigan, too,” I said.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. We found Daisy Carmichael’s phone. And the text she supposedly sent you was on it.”
Butterflies started crashing into the sides of my stomach. “Really? Where did you find it?” I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I really wanted to know.
“In Ainsley Wainwright’s apartment.”
Chapter 38
Okay, so this was a bit freaky. And now I was in a bind, because I needed to tell him about the picture, how there were two of them. Might as well hold off as long as possible.
“When did you go over to her apartment, then?” I asked. “I mean, I got that text last night, so did you go this morning?”
“That’s right.”
They must have been there before we got there, because we didn’t see a cell phone anywhere.
I couldn’t stall forever.
“You know Ainsley Wainwright has a twin sister, right?” I asked.
Silence for a second, then, “Yes, I do know that. How do you know?”
“So you know? Don’t you think this twin sister is the one who’s behind all this?” Keep talking and maybe he won’t realize I’m not answering his question.
“Why don’t you let us do the investigating, Brett. And how do you know about the twin sister?”
So he wasn’t going to let me off the hook.
“I found a picture.”
“You found a picture? Where?”
I thought about how Bitsy said to say I found it in the limo, but it seemed a bit far-fetched, and why hadn’t I told him about it yesterday? I was stuck.
“You’re not going to tell me?” His voice echoed in my head, and then I had it. I wasn’t going to tell him. Simple, right? Maybe not so much. “I hope you’re not doing anything you’re not supposed to be doing, Brett.”
“Are you going to find her today? So I can stop looking over my shoulder?” I couldn’t keep the worry out of my voice.
Tim sighed. “We’re on it, but still stay cautious. Can you get Jeff to take you home later?”
I felt something snap. “Why Jeff? I mean, why not Joel or Bitsy? Why does it have to be Jeff?” Yes, the lady was protesting too much, and it didn’t escape Tim.
He chuckled. “It can be anyone you’d like. I just thought—”
“Well, don’t think. I’ve got a client. I’ve got to go.” I punched END on the phone, although it didn’t have the same satisfying feel as slamming a phone receiver down.
I grabbed the manila folder and started toward my room. I was still clearly having issues with Jeff Coleman and the fact that he’d kissed me. Or more, that I’d kissed him back. And liked it.
I pushed the thoughts aside and went back to my client, putting myself on autopilot, forcing a smile.
I was glad to know I could still work. In fact, work was a way to forget about what was going on. As long as I was in my room, the familiar weight of the tattoo machine pressed against my hand, I felt as though I had no troubles.
Too bad I couldn’t hole myself up in there for the next couple of weeks, or at least until Tim found Ainsley Wainwright’s twin sister. I had begun to wonder if she wasn’t responsible for pinning Daisy’s murder on Sherman Potter and trying to frame me as well. Although setting two people up for the same crime seemed a bit overachieving. And then there was the little fact that her sister was murdered—even though Tim hadn’t told me officially, the red stain on the mattress was more than a clue. She wouldn’t kill her sister, would she? So someone else must have.
I couldn’t be thinking about all this while I worked. Shea Collins was a science major at the university, and she wanted a tattoo of the bones of her spine along the bones of her spine, from the top of her neck down to her lower back. She was a skinny girl, and it was a little dicey working with the uneven canvas. Also, because it was very bony, it was a lot more painful for her than having a tattoo on a fleshy part of her body. She choked back sobs, and when I offered to make the design simpler so I could be done more quickly, she adamantly refused. I had no choice but to keep going.
My hand had started to cramp up a little after an hour, and I turned off the machine and set it down on the table behind me. I surveyed the design and was pleased. I handed Shea a box of Kleenex.
“How about if we finish this up another day?” I asked. “How about the end of the week?”
She nodded, blowing her nose.
After I smoothed some Tattoo Goo on the outline I’d managed to get done and covered up the new tattoo so she could put her shirt back on, Shea and I went out into the front of the shop, where Bitsy was leafing through the appointment book. She looked up when we approached. I explained how Shea needed to come back. Bitsy nodded, then said softly, “That girl is here.”
“What girl?”
“The one Joel talked to this morning. At Ainsley Wainwright’s apartm
ent. He said he’d give her a discount. What sort of discount would be appropriate?”
I had no idea she’d really show up here, and from the look on Bitsy’s face, Bitsy hadn’t expected it, either.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“She did help us,” Bitsy reminded me.
Had she? Oh, right. She had told us about the twins. But that was about it. I had a thought. If she was getting a discount on a tattoo, then she should cough up a little more information. I said as much to Bitsy, who concurred.
“She’s in the back with Joel, who’s doing up a design for her.”
We’d told her we were cops. Unless she was stupid, she couldn’t still believe that.
“Did she bring that friend with her? The one she mentioned.”
Bitsy shook her head. “She’s alone.”
I left Shea with Bitsy and strode down the hall toward the waiting area in the back. The black leather sofa clashed in a nice way with the blond laminate flooring. A glass coffee table held a variety of tattoo magazines and a couple of our portfolios, so clients could get an idea of the kind of work we did.
Joel was sitting next to the girl on the couch, his pad open, his pencil frantically sketching. The girl was pointing, showing him what she wanted.
I cleared my throat, and they both looked up. Joel smiled. “Brett, this is Terri.”
I stepped forward to shake her hand, but she didn’t make a move toward me. I waited for her to say something about how we’d impersonated Las Vegas’s finest, but she merely nodded. I hoped she wouldn’t make some sort of citizen’s arrest or complaint. I didn’t need Tim on my case again.
I wondered again if she thought I was a killer, like the blogs said. So far no clients had mentioned it. Maybe they didn’t read the blogs. I could only hope.
Terri’s eyes were running up and down my person, though, checking me out. I shivered slightly, uncomfortable under her gaze. It was almost as if she were a guy. Uh-oh. Maybe she played for the other team. This was definitely awkward.
I pushed through it, though, and shifted from one foot to the other, finally asking, “I was wondering if you could tell me a little something about Ainsley Wainwright. I mean, if you live in the same building, you must know her, right?”
Ink Flamingos Page 17
