Ink Flamingos

by Karen E. Olson

  She hesitated a second before shrugging. “Sure. But you probably only want to know about that blog, right?”

  Okay, she did know about it. I nodded.

  “She liked tattoos. She had a bunch of them, but not where you’d notice.” Terri flashed a little knowing smile. Hmm. Maybe they were closer than I thought. But that also made me think. When I’d met Sherman Potter’s Ainsley, the only tattoo I’d seen was the one on the inside of her thigh. If she’d had others, I would’ve seen them, considering how small that towel was. So she must really be the sister.

  “You said you’d never met her sister, right?” I asked Terri, who had lost interest and was now paying more attention to Joel’s drawing.

  “No,” she said.

  “What can you tell me about the blog?” I asked, when I realized she wasn’t going to say anything more.

  “She loved doing that.”

  I’d hoped for a little more, but Terri didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. I changed tacks.

  “She worked at a dental group?”

  Terri nodded. “She was a hygienist.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend or anything?”

  “Some guy showed up last week. Never saw him before. Tall, dark hair, looked like he worked out, older guy. He had a long nose. It didn’t seem to go with his face.”

  Terri had just described Sherman Potter. What was he doing there? He was involved with the sister, not the blogger. Or had he known both of them?

  “I’m done.” Joel put his pencil on the table and lifted up the notepad.

  I stopped breathing. It was a flamingo. He shrugged at me. “This is what she wanted.”

  I stared at Terri, who was admiring the sketch. “I love it,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

  I wanted to put a ban on flamingo tattoos. A sign out front that said NO FLAMINGOS HERE. Joel knew what I was thinking, and his eyebrows rose high in his forehead as if to tell me to chill.

  I forced a smile. “It’s nice,” I said and went back to the front of the shop to leave them alone to figure out the particulars and see when Terri could come back for the actual tattoo.

  Bitsy’s mouth formed a little “o” when she saw my face, but the phone rang, interrupting any question she’d had, and she picked it up. “The Painted Lady,” she said, all signs of emotion wiped from her voice.

  “Hold on a sec,” Bitsy said, putting her hand over the receiver and frowning up at me. “There’s a problem.”

  I waited.

  “This is your next client. She said she got a message from you saying you had an emergency and wouldn’t be able to keep her appointment. She wants to reschedule. What’s up?”

  I had no idea. Because I hadn’t called her.

  Chapter 39

  I took the phone from Bitsy.

  “Jenny? It’s Brett.”

  “Oh, is everything all right?”

  “I’m not sure. When did I call you to cancel?”

  Silence. I could hear Jenny wondering why I was asking, then, “Maybe about an hour ago. I had my phone off because I was in class.” She paused. “What’s going on?”

  Exactly what I’d like to know, too. “I didn’t call you, Jenny. I’m sorry. It wasn’t me.”

  “It sounded like you.”

  My impostor strikes again. “I can keep your three o’clock, if you can still come in,” I offered.

  “I’ll be there,” she said, relief in her voice.

  “Okay, great. See you in an hour,” I said, and hung up. I turned to Bitsy, who’d been hanging on every word. “I want Tim to catch that woman and lock her up.”

  “But how did she know Jenny was coming in? How did she know her phone number to call her?” Bitsy asked.

  Good questions. Wished I had the answers.

  “Only way to know was the appointment book,” Bitsy pointed out.

  I knew what she was thinking.

  “Where’s Ace?” I asked reluctantly. Ace had access to our appointments.

  “He went out for lunch, but remember, she said a woman called her,” Bitsy reminded me. “So it couldn’t have been Ace.”

  Not Ace, maybe, but a friend of his? Did he know Ainsley Wainwright? Or her sister? I didn’t hang out with Ace after work; I had never been as close with him as I was with Bitsy and Joel.

  Bitsy anticipated my next question. “He wouldn’t sabotage the business, Brett. No matter how he felt about it or you.”

  None of this made any sense. I waved my hand in the air and shook my head and went into the staff room. I sat at the light table, grabbed Jenny’s folder, and pulled out her stencil. I still had a little work to do before she came in, and now, because of that phone call, I wanted to make it up to her, so I added more detail to the rosebush that she wanted on her side.

  I saw Joel walking Terri out, and then I heard Bitsy and Joel talking; the phone rang, but I shut it out, concentrating on the roses.

  “Brett?” Bitsy stood in the doorway.

  “Yes?” Jenny couldn’t be here yet; it was still too soon.

  “It’s another one.”

  “Another one what?”

  “Another client. Said she got a phone call, wanted to make sure you were okay after the accident.”

  A lump stuck in my throat. “What accident?”

  “She says you called, said you were in an accident and would be canceling all your appointments for the rest of the week. She’s worried about you.”

  I couldn’t breathe. What was going on?

  “Ace is back,” Bitsy added softly. “Do you want me to ask him about this, or will you?”

  I didn’t think I could form a coherent sentence at the moment. Finally, I took a deep breath and said, “I will. Please tell my client that I was not in an accident, that I’ll be able to keep her appointment.”

  “I’ll send Ace in.” Bitsy disappeared, and I was still staring at the doorway when Ace appeared.

  He wore a frown. “What’s up?”

  I indicated he should come in and sit down at the table, where I joined him. I licked my lips, uncertain how to start.

  Finally, “I have to ask you something, but please don’t take it the wrong way. It’s just that someone’s been impersonating me, sending me text messages from dead people, breaking into my house and leaving plastic flamingos on my bed.”

  “That blog,” Ace said, his voice low, his eyes dark.

  I nodded. “Right. That blog. Well, now someone is calling my clients and telling them I was in an accident, that I can’t make their appointments. And the only place to find those clients’ information is in the appointment book.”

  Ace stared at me, confusion slowly replaced by understanding. His eyes flashed. “You think it’s me?” he asked incredulously.

  “I have to ask everyone,” I said. “Not just you. I just need to make sure it’s no one here.”

  “You’re mad that I’m leaving,” he accused. “So now it’s my fault.” He stood up, his hands clenched into tight balls.

  I stood, too. We were about the same height, both of us almost six feet. “No, Ace, I want you to stay. I want to talk to you about what I can do to convince you to stay.”

  “So you do it by accusing me of taking your client list and telling them not to come for their appointments?”

  I totally screwed this one up, because now I could see it in his face. He had nothing to do with this. I was way off base on this one.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I just had to ask.” I tried again. “But please reconsider your decision.”

  He shook his head. “No, this pretty much seals the deal for me.” And he stormed out.

  I sank back down into the chair and put my head in my hands. This was not working out the way I wanted. Whoever was doing this was responsible, and I had to stop her.

  “Guess that didn’t work,” I heard Bitsy say.

  I looked up over my elbow and saw her coming toward me. I shook my head. “No, it was pretty awful.”

  “He’s packing his
stuff up now.”

  “I made a mess of all this.”

  “No, someone’s messing with you. Bad. You should call your brother about this one.”

  Bitsy was right. I did need to call Tim, but he knew so much already and still hadn’t found Ainsley Wainwright’s sister. There was no guarantee that he would ever find her, that this would ever stop, until my life was totally ruined and I was hiding under chairs all the time.

  I heard my cell phone ringing in my bag. What now?

  I reached over and grabbed it, hesitating a little when I saw the caller ID. Jeff Coleman.

  “Hey, Jeff,” I said, trying to sound casual. “What’s up?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why would you think something’s wrong?” I asked. Not as though he couldn’t hear the tension in my voice.

  “Give it up, Kavanaugh; then I’ll tell you my news.”

  He had news. Hmmm. I quickly told him about the impostor now canceling my clients. When I was done, he said, “Oh.”

  “That’s it? Oh?”

  “What do you want from me? To say that someone’s out to get you, that it’s all one big conspiracy?”

  I tried to hear the teasing in his voice, but I couldn’t. For once. Immediately I grew suspicious. But before I could respond, he spoke again.

  “Because it is one big conspiracy.”

  Huh?

  “Sherman Potter’s out.”

  “Out where?” Butterflies began crashing into the sides of my stomach.

  “Out on the street. And he’s on the move.”

  Chapter 40

  On the move? “How do you know this? Did you talk to Tim?” I asked.

  “Potter ponied up the bail. Did a little business with my neighbor.”

  Goodfellas Bail Bonds. Right next door to Murder Ink.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I am on speaking terms with Sonny.”

  “Sonny?”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “Sonny owns Goodfellas. He stops over occasionally when it’s slow, although I haven’t seen him too much lately. I think the crime rate’s going up.”

  I didn’t need Jeff Coleman’s opinion about social issues. “He just happened to tell you about Sherman Potter?”

  “No, Kavanaugh. I asked him directly. I figured Potter would need a bondsman—why not ask around?”

  So at least I knew one of Jeff’s sources now. “Seems a little convenient that Sherman Potter went to the guy next door,” I said.

  “Sonny hangs out over near the police station, just in case. He happened to hear about the Flamingos’ band manager. Let’s say Sonny enjoys a little notoriety, and he has a thing for celebrity clients.” Jeff paused. “Are you finished giving me the third degree, or do you want to know where Potter’s off to?”

  Oh, right. Sherman Potter was “on the move.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, remembering something. “He’s on his way here. To the Venetian.”

  Jeff was silent a second, then, “Give the girl a gold star. How do you know that?”

  I didn’t want to tell him that Harry had told me Potter always stayed at the Venetian when he was in town. Instead I said, “You’re not the only one with sources, you know.”

  I heard a low chuckle, then, “You could go keep an eye on him.”

  “I could, but I’ve got a client coming in.” I glanced at my watch. Jenny would be here in a few minutes. I couldn’t back out now, considering. “You could come over and spy on him, though, until I’m done.”

  “You remember that I’ve got my own business to run.”

  “So I guess no one’s keeping an eye on him for now.” My tone was flippant, but it was hardly the way I felt. I did want to see what Sherman Potter was up to, but more than likely he’d hole himself up in his room and order room service or something.

  Bitsy stuck her head in the door and mouthed that Jenny had arrived.

  “Listen, Jeff, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you when I’m done, okay?” and I hung up without saying good-bye.

  My head was totally not into the tattoo. I kept having to shake myself out of thoughts about Sherman Potter. He was so close. I could track him down and demand to know about Ainsley, his Ainsley: Who was she, where was she, why did he go visit her sister?

  I couldn’t finish the tattoo today, since it was too big, but I managed to get the black outlines done. It reminded me of the tattoos I’d done on Daisy, and I felt my mood go even further south.

  Jenny was happy, though, when she came back into the room after checking out her new rosebush in the bigger mirror in the back. She grinned and gushed about how wonderful it was and how soon could she come back for the color?

  I sent her out to Bitsy so she could make her next appointment as I started to clean up, throwing away the disposable ink pots and needles, wiping down the chair with antibacterial spray. It was busywork as I plotted out how I was going to go about finding out which room Sherman Potter was in. The last time, I’d had Harry with me, and he’d turned on his charm with the woman at the front desk. This time, I’d have to figure out how to charm them myself.

  Unless Potter liked the same room every time. People who came here had a lot of superstitions, and it was possible that if Potter stayed here every time, staying in the same room might be part of his ritual. I scoured my brain trying to recall what room number it had been, which floor. And then I had it. I stood up straighter and smiled, proud of myself for being so clever. Sister Mary Eucharista was whispering that I shouldn’t count my chickens, but I was never that good at math anyway.

  I passed Ace’s room on my way to the staff room, glancing in but seeing nothing missing except Ace. Had I really driven him out?

  I didn’t want to think about that now. I had more pressing things on my mind. I could concentrate on talking Ace back later. After I found my stalker/impostor. After this whole nightmare was over.

  I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder. Bitsy frowned when she saw me.

  “Where are you going? Are you going to pick up some food?”

  Even though five o’clock might be dinnertime for some people, it was a bit early for those of us at The Painted Lady. We were usually having dinner at seven or later. I shook my head. “I won’t be too long.”

  “You need to call Jeff first.” Bitsy waved a little pink message slip in my face. “He called about half an hour ago.”

  “He knew I was with a client,” I muttered as I stared at the slip, which merely said, Call Jeff. I pulled my cell phone out of my bag as I pushed the glass doors open and stepped out into the illusion that is the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes. The gondoliers’ oars slapped against the water in the canal, making a little pft pft sound. Music wafted toward me from St. Mark’s Square just over the footbridge, and I could imagine the dancers in their Renaissance costumes performing for the tourists.

  Jeff picked up on the first ring. “What took you so long?”

  “Rosebush. Big one. On her torso on the side.”

  “Little clichéd, huh?”

  “Like your flash isn’t boring,” I snapped back.

  “Touché.” He was quiet a second, then, “So what are you up to now?”

  “I’m walking through the shops to the hotel,” I said. “I’m going to find Sherman Potter.”

  “You don’t have to bother.”

  I stopped short, and an elderly couple almost crashed into me. They gave me a dirty look as they scooted around me. I stepped to the edge of the walkway.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “He’s not at the Venetian anymore.”

  He said it like he knew it for a fact. Which meant. . . “You came over here,” I said.

  “That’s right. And he left.”

  I sighed.

  “I know you’re disappointed, Kavanaugh,” Jeff said, “but don’t despair.”

  Don’t despair? What, was he reading romance novels these days?

  “I’m following him.”

  �
��You’re following him?”

  “Is there an echo in here?”

  I totally didn’t need his crap. “Do you have any idea where he’s going?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, where?” This twenty-question thing was getting a little old.

  “He’s pulling in right now. I have to hang back a little.”

  “Pulling in where?” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, counting to ten so I wouldn’t explode.

  “The Golden Palace. The hotel where they found your friend’s body.”

  Chapter 41

  “I’m on my way,” I said, turning around to go to the parking garage.

  “I’ve got it covered. Stay where you are.”

  “I’ll be there in a few,” I said, tossing my phone into my bag.

  It only took me about six minutes to get to my car and find my way out of the parking garage. As usual, I turned left, so I’d go down to Koval rather than up to the Strip. I could take Tropicana past New York New York, although it was rush hour now and the traffic was backed up at the light at the Strip. As I inched forward, I glanced down to the left and saw a long row of cars waiting in that direction, too. The airport was mere minutes away, and the infamous Las Vegas sign was down that way. The city had finally created a rest stop at the sign, complete with parking spaces, so people wouldn’t have to risk their lives to take their picture under it.

  It dawned on me as I finally sailed through the light that trying to find Jeff at the Golden Palace might not be the easiest feat, the only saving grace the fact that he drove a bright orange metallic car. Which begged the question: How on earth could he tail anyone in that and not be seen? Except I kept forgetting that despite his declarations otherwise, I suspected he’d been some sort of covert operative in the Marines during the Gulf War. Not to mention that he was a sneaky sort of person. Someone I absolutely wanted on my side while trying to track down my impostor.

  I turned into the Golden Palace’s driveway and drove around the parking lot only once before I spotted the orange Pontiac. It was the only one I saw, so it must be Jeff’s. I’d never seen another car that color anywhere.