Ink Flamingos

by Karen E. Olson

  I parked next to the Pontiac, got out, and locked the doors, swinging my bag over my shoulder and wondering where I might find Jeff now. As I started to pass the Pontiac, a hand shot out of the back window and grabbed me.

  I froze; the fingers wrapped around my forearm were tight as a vise. My heart began to beat so fast I could barely hear anything over it.

  Except something did get through.

  “You’re late.”

  I looked down to see Sylvia Coleman’s face peering out at me. Her white hair was piled high on her head, little rhinestone butterflies clipped throughout. As if she needed any more adornment than the body art she sported.

  “What do you mean, I’m late?” I asked.

  She released her grip and pulled her hand back inside the car, the door opening just seconds later. She stepped out, her small figure looking much taller than it was because of the way she held herself.

  “Took you long enough.”

  “Traffic. What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  Okay, so that one was a no-brainer, but it still didn’t answer my question. “No. I mean, Jeff brought you along? Who’s at your shop?”

  “No one. We closed up. We don’t do a lot of business anyway until later.”

  After the kids were out partying and decided to get tattooed. I understood. They were close to Fremont Street, which had a little different clientele from the one I had over at the Venetian.

  She still hadn’t answered my question, though, and I wanted to know why Jeff would’ve brought her along on his spy mission. But knowing Sylvia, we could go around and around on it and I’d never get an answer, so I merely asked, “Where’s Jeff?”

  “He said to wait for you.”

  “So that’s why you’re here?”

  “He knew you’d come, and that someone would have to meet you.”

  He knew that, did he? I hated it that he knew me so well, that he knew I wouldn’t stay put even when he said I should. But then, most people knew that about me, so it didn’t make Jeff Coleman any more special than anyone else. So there.

  Sylvia swung a cheetah-print tote bag over her shoulder, tucked her hand in the crook of my elbow, and said, “Let’s go find the bad guy.”

  We weren’t that far from the Golden Palace entrance, and as we approached, I could see the familiar facade made up to be like a Chinese palace, with golds and reds swirling about in columns that stretched up over our heads to meet in an entryway that looked like those friendship gates you’d see whenever you went to a Chinatown.

  We went under the gate and crossed over a driveway to the revolving doors.

  “I hate those things,” Sylvia muttered. “You go first.” She let go of my arm and gave me a little nudge toward it.

  I stepped inside, and she crowded behind me, holding on to my waist as we took baby steps around until we reached the other side. I took her arm and helped her through.

  The Golden Palace kept the Chinese theme here in the lobby of the hotel, with gold and red sashes looping above the front desk. All the employees were wearing Chinese-style clothes: the men wore blue Mao jackets; the women wore bright red dresses with Mandarin collars. But despite the attempt to mimic the theme hotels on the Strip, the Golden Palace couldn’t erase the telltale signs that it wasn’t even a second-rate resort, rather more like third or fourth. White orchids sprung from plastic vases that looked as though they were picked up at the local Walmart, undermining the attempt at elegance, and a large gold Buddha whose paint was peeling stood sentry in the middle of the lobby. Another problem was that no one working here was Asian. Couldn’t they find any Asians in Vegas? Couldn’t they steal them away from the Chinese restaurants?

  Maybe that was the start of the Golden Palace’s problems.

  I glanced around but didn’t see Jeff anywhere. “I wonder where they’d go,” I mused.

  “Maybe to the casino.” Sylvia pointed up to a red sign with gold script, pointing out the direction we had to walk to get there.

  I wasn’t sure, but we didn’t have any clues to where we should head, so why not? Sylvia’s hand found its way back to my elbow, and I had to slow my pace a little so our steps could be in sync. She was almost a foot shorter than me, although pretty spry when she had to be. She swam every other day at the pool in Henderson, where I swam in the summer months when it was too hot to go hiking up at Red Rock.

  We’d reached the casino now, and it was more of the same here: reds and golds and buddhas scattered among the table games and the slot machines. I took a glance around but didn’t spot Jeff anywhere. But I did see someone familiar: Harry Desmond.

  He was walking briskly through the casino like a man on a mission, his eyes focused straight ahead, his hands in the pockets of his plaid Bermuda shorts.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  I whirled around to see Jeff Coleman standing behind us.

  “No clue,” I said. “Where’s Sherman Potter?”

  Jeff studied my face for a second before answering, and I wondered if he was going to stonewall me, but finally he said, “He’s upstairs. In a room.”

  “But he has a room at the Venetian. Doesn’t he?” I asked.

  Before he could answer, Sylvia piped up. “I’d love to stand here all day, but I’m hungry. Can we go get something to eat?”

  I didn’t want to point out the obvious: We weren’t here to eat, but to see what Sherman Potter was up to. Find out whether he was behind everything that had been going on the last few days.

  But Jeff didn’t seem quite so focused on that right now. “Sounds like a plan,” he said to Sylvia.

  Huh? He’d gotten me all the way out here, and now we were just going to eat?

  We were standing outside a restaurant. The sign said to wait to be seated, but Jeff took his mother’s arm with one hand and grabbed my hand with his other one and led us into the restaurant anyway. He nodded at a waitress, who came over with menus; Jeff pulled out a chair for Sylvia, who sat, and then he turned to me.

  I plopped down into the chair before he could do anything chivalrous. He raised one eyebrow at me.

  “I can seat myself,” I said.

  “I see that,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I ignored it.

  There had only been two chairs at the table, and he grabbed one from another table and pulled it over, closer to me than to his mother. I resisted the urge to give myself a little more personal space. I didn’t want to hear his sarcastic comments.

  “So while we’re sitting here,” I said after we’d all ordered coffee and Sylvia ordered a slice of lemon meringue pie, “will Sherman Potter take off on us?”

  Jeff shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “No.” “And how are you so sure about that?”

  “He put a DO NOT DISTURB Sign on the door.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It does when he’s gone in there with a woman.”

  I sat up a little straighter. “What?”

  He let the smile come out now. “Figured that’d get your attention.”

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Please?”

  I took a deep breath but didn’t say anything. “Okay, Kavanaugh, if you must know. She’s a tall redhead.”

  Chapter 42

  It had to be Sherman Potter’s Ainsley. I said as much, and Jeff nodded.

  “The room was in her name. Wainwright.”

  I frowned. How did he know that? He saw my expression and smirked.

  “I told you, Kavanaugh, I have my ways.”

  Instead of getting irritated as usual, though, I remembered how Daisy had been found in a room that was reserved for Ainsley Wainwright. I reminded Jeff of that.

  “And since Ainsley Wainwright is dead, the girl you saw must be her twin sister.”

  “She’s got a twin?” Jeff asked.

  Oh, right, I hadn’t told Jeff about that yet. I nodded.

  He chuckled. “How on earth do you
know these little tidbits of information, Kavanaugh?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  He laughed out loud.

  I rolled my eyes. “Maybe we should go up there,” I suggested. “Maybe it’s time to find out what’s going on.”

  “You think they’ll tell you?” Jeff asked, taking a drink of his coffee.

  Who knew? But it would be better than sitting here, doing nothing.

  Jeff stood up. “Okay, let’s go.”

  What?

  “Let’s go up there,” he said. “Let’s find out what this is all about.”

  I thought he was joking, until he put his hand under my elbow and pulled me up. “Come on.”

  I looked over at Sylvia, who was still eating her pie. She waved a hand at us. “I’ll hold down the fort here. I might try the peach pie next.”

  Sure. Why not? Jeff and I walked out of the restaurant and toward the lobby.

  “You’re sure they’re up there,” I said.

  “I saw them go in.”

  “So tell me how you found out the room was in her name.”

  Before he could answer, a young, petite blonde scurried toward us, a big smile on her face. As her eyes flicked to me, the smile faded slightly; then it blossomed again when she looked at Jeff.

  “Do you need any more help?”

  So that’s how he’d done it—how he’d found out the room was in Ainsley’s name. He had a mole at the front desk. A woman who clearly had the hots for him. What was it with women who worked at hotel front desks? Were they really so easily swayed by a flash of a smile that they’d give up room information? Although frankly, I could understand giving up information to Harry. He was young and had those swaggering good looks. But Jeff?

  For the first time I attempted to see Jeff Coleman through another woman’s eyes. We’d started out antagonistically as competitors, when he was all caught up in his ex-wife’s murder and I helped him out, and then we slowly, very slowly, became friends. So I’d never looked at him objectively before.

  I knew what he looked like, of course. He was a little shorter than me—not that that bothered me, and it was obvious it didn’t bother him, either—with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut, maybe ten years older than my own thirty-two years. The lines in his face showed that he’d lived hard at some point, not to mention the cigarettes, but they gave his face some character, I realized. He’d bulked up a little bit in the last months, as though he’d been working out, but I never said anything because I knew he’d twist it all around and say something all smart-alecky about it. But looking at him now, I saw a different Jeff, a guy who was in good shape, good-looking in a rugged sort of way, actually, someone I might have noticed if I hadn’t been so competitive and he hadn’t been so annoying to start out.

  And I felt a flush crawl up my neck when I thought about that kiss again. I had liked it more than I was letting on to myself.

  Which was probably why I felt a sudden flash of—dare I say it—jealousy as this young, cute woman batted her long black eyelashes at Jeff and he flirted back.

  The emotion caught me by surprise, and I caught my breath. And wouldn’t you know it, Jeff was on to me. He winked at me before turning back to the blonde. I’d totally missed her name, but it’s not as though I’d ever need it.

  “We’ve got a singer in the nightclub here tonight,” she was saying, clearly an invitation. For him, not me. She hadn’t given me another look.

  “Anyone I know?” he asked. His voice had gotten softer, and there was a distinct Southern lilt to it now. Great.

  I wasn’t in the mood for idle chitchat. I shifted from one foot to the other, but almost fell over when she answered.

  “The Flamingos’ new lead singer. She’s doing a solo gig.”

  “Ainsley?” I croaked.

  It was as though she’d just noticed I was there. “No, not Ainsley,” she said, frowning. “It’s Ann. Ann Wainwright.” She studied my face for a second, then said, “I know you, don’t I?”

  Uh-oh. I hoped she didn’t read the blogs. Or the newspapers. I tugged on Jeff’s shirtsleeve. Time to go.

  Fortunately, he agreed with me. He nodded at her and said, “I’ll see if I can make it.”

  “She starts at eight.”

  “Okay,” he said, as if he’d really show up, and then we turned toward the elevators. One was opening just as we approached, so we hopped in.

  “So at least we know Ainsley’s sister’s name now,” I said. “But why not reserve the room in her own name, since that’s the one she’s using tonight? Didn’t you say the room was reserved under the name Ainsley Wainwright?”

  Jeff shook his head. “I never said that. I didn’t get a first name. Just the last.”

  “Losing your touch?” I teased.

  He shrugged, his eyebrows rising slightly in his forehead, his lips curving into a sly smile. “What do you think?”

  “Okay, so you made quite the impression on that little thing back there,” I said.

  “All for the cause, all for the cause.”

  The elevator doors slid open. We were on the nineteenth floor. It was shabby up here; a moldy odor hung in the air. The carpet was gray, but I couldn’t tell if that was the original color or whether it was supposed to be white but had gotten dirty. Jeff took my arm and led me to the left, pointing at the room numbers on a sign.

  “Down here.”

  The hallway was a maze of turns. It felt as though we were walking blocks. The odor grew stronger the farther away from the elevator we got.

  “You got a little jealous back there, didn’t you?” Jeff teased.

  I didn’t answer.

  He stopped at a door, a DO NOT DISTURB Sign dangling from the knob. “This is it.” He reached out and put his knuckles to the door, but as he knocked, the door moved. He gave it a little push and it opened.

  We exchanged a glance.

  “Wasn’t closed properly,” he said, as if setting up our explanation to the police as to how we ended up breaking and entering. Tim would not be pleased, regardless.

  I hung back as Jeff put his head around the door. I could see the corner of an unmade bed, sheets in a pile on the floor at the foot of it, a leg hanging over the side.

  “Stay here,” Jeff whispered as he went farther around the door.

  I didn’t want to be out here all by myself, so I followed him, but stopped when I saw the naked man sprawled across the bed.

  And the tattoo of a flamingo on his arm.

  Chapter 43

  It was Sherman Potter. And he wasn’t merely sleeping.

  Jeff was hunched over the body, studying the flamingo tattoo, which was not nearly as colorful as Daisy’s had been when she died.

  “It’s not new,” he said.

  I leaned over his shoulder and studied it, too. Jeff was right: This tattoo was not new at all. It actually looked like it was a lot older than the Flamingos, because the color was faded, the lines not so sharp anymore. I wondered if Sherman Potter had given the band its name from the tattoo he sported. Daisy had never said anything about the origin of the band’s name, although I’d always assumed it had come from her.

  Jeff was no longer paying attention to the tattoo, but scanning the body.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, wondering if we should cover the man up. It wasn’t exactly dignified to be letting it all hang out like that.

  “Looking for a cause of death,” Jeff said.

  Okay. Sounded reasonable.

  I thought about how Daisy had been found in a room in this very same hotel just a couple of days ago. It could not be a coincidence that now Sherman Potter was here, too.

  A redheaded woman was seen leaving Daisy’s room, and Jeff had seen a redheaded woman come in this room with Sherman Potter.

  That could cast doubt on whether Sherman Potter was responsible for Daisy’s death, but it was pointing every finger at Ann Wainwright. I wondered why Ann had been using her sister’s name.

  I glanced back
at the tattoo, then looked around the room. Sherman Potter had traveled light, since I didn’t see a suitcase or any clothes except the ones that were scattered on the floor. A hotel room key card lay on the desk. Maybe he really was staying at the Venetian and this was just some sort of afternoon delight. Well, until he died, of course.

  I heard a familiar tone. My cell phone. A text message. I reached into my bag and pulled it out, reading the screen.

  My hand started to shake, and Jeff gently took the phone from me, looking at the message.

  It was a picture text, with a picture of Sherman Potter’s flamingo tattoo. The one we were looking at right this very moment. And a message that said, “You keep giving me good reasons to blog.”

  “She put it up on the blog,” I whispered. “What else did she put there?” Was she watching us now? Did she see us come in here?

  “We could go down to the lobby and see if we can use a computer in the business office to find out what’s up.” Jeff’s tone was matter of fact.

  “We need to call Tim,” I said, although I wasn’t too sure how he’d take me finding yet another dead body.

  Jeff knew what I was thinking. “How are you going to explain to your brother that you happened upon poor old Sherman Potter? It’s breaking and entering.”

  “The door was open,” I said after a moment.

  He grinned. “That’s right. But considering that you’re already on the hook for Daisy Carmichael and there’s another flamingo tattoo in the picture, maybe you’ll just want to phone this in anonymously.”

  It was tempting. I didn’t need Tim telling me yet again that I shouldn’t get involved. But I couldn’t do it. I had to tell him. Because the guilt would eat me alive. Sister Mary Eucharista had taught me well.

  “Didn’t think so,” Jeff teased, but I could hear something in his tone that indicated he agreed with me.

  I took the phone out of Jeff’s hand and punched in Tim’s number.

  “What is it now, Brett?”

  His tone made me wish I hadn’t felt so guilty.

  “Well, there’s a bit of a situation,” I started.