Driven to Ink

by Karen E. Olson

  I rolled my eyes and stared out the window.

  “Hey, Kavanaugh, can you get it out?”

  I turned back to see Jeff shifting up in his seat, his butt facing me, the white envelope he’d taken from Dan Franklin’s mailbox flapping against the back of his seat.

  I didn’t really want to be that close to Jeff Coleman’s butt, but I reached over and snatched it out.

  It was a bank statement.

  “We really shouldn’t open this,” I said, but my fingers were itching to.

  Sister Mary Eucharista would have slapped those fingers with a ruler if she could.

  What was wrong with me? Was being with Jeff Coleman turning me into a felon? We pretend to be getting married to get information; we steal mail; we almost break into a man’s house. What else? Oh, right, I looked into a man’s locker at That’s Amore. But I couldn’t exactly blame Jeff for that. I was alone at the time. But it was his influence, for sure.

  Jeff Coleman wasn’t good for me.

  He was grinning. “Oh, go ahead,” he egged me on. “Everyone does their banking online anyway now. Don’t you throw those mailed statements in a box and not even look at them?”

  How did he know what I did with my bank statements?

  He was still talking. “Dan Franklin might not even realize that he didn’t get a statement this month.”

  I sighed and tossed the envelope on the dashboard. “I can’t do it,” I said. “It’s bad enough we took it.”

  We were stopped at a light at the Home Depot. Jeff grabbed the envelope, slid his finger into the crease, and opened it. He pulled out a couple of sheets of paper with Dan Franklin’s personal business on them.

  And he let out a low whistle.

  “You ought to look at this, Kavanaugh,” he said, throwing it into my lap as the light turned green and he hit the accelerator.

  I jumped as if he’d thrown a snake at me.

  “It’s not going to bite,” he teased.

  I didn’t even have to pick it up. It landed in such a way that I could see exactly what Jeff Coleman had seen.

  Dan Franklin had made a withdrawal of ten thousand dollars two weeks ago.

  Chapter 16

  As with the cage, this might have not meant anything. “Maybe he needed a new air-conditioning unit or something for his house,” I said. “We don’t know what he used that money for.”

  “It’s a lot of money,” Jeff said. “And maybe you’re right. But he withdraws this kind of money and then disappears? After his coworker is murdered? With a dead rat underneath him in your trunk?”

  “It still doesn’t mean anything,” I insisted. “And we committed a crime. We should bring this back.”

  Jeff indicated the torn envelope. “Don’t think so. I wonder where he is.”

  “Well, it’s clear he hasn’t been home in a couple days at least.”

  “Three, if you count the newspapers. But why is the car there?”

  I didn’t answer as I stared out the window. Jeff had gotten onto the highway and was heading back downtown. The mountains spread out in the distance, their charcoal color clashing with the clear, light blue sky, clouds looking like cotton balls. A jet left a long white trail behind it as it sailed out of sight.

  “Earth to Kavanaugh,” Jeff was saying. “What is it about those mountains for you?”

  I sighed. “It’s peaceful up there. No worries. No schedules, no clients, nothing but me.”

  “Don’t turn into one of those crunchy granola types.”

  I lifted my leg to show off my Teva sandals. “I already wear these.”

  “As long as they’re not Birkenstocks.”

  “What’s wrong with those?” I thought about the sandals in my closet at home.

  He laughed. “You’ve got a pair, don’t you?”

  I felt my face flush hot, and I turned away from him so I could look out the side window. I heard him chuckling, then humming to himself as we took back roads all the way up to his shop.

  He broke the silence as he pulled into the alley behind Murder Ink. “Maybe I should’ve let you hang a little longer with Mr. Studly,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He liked you. Maybe he knows something. Something about Dan Franklin, why he’s missing, or something about Ray Lucci.”

  “You think he’d tell me because he likes me?” I asked.

  “Sure, why not? You should call him. Go out to dinner, wear something other than that skirt.” He made a face as he glanced at it. “How he could be interested in you, looking like that? Well, there’s no accounting for taste. Of course it could be worse. You could be wearing those Birkenstocks with it.”

  “So now you’re Tim Gunn?” I asked. “You think you could dress me better than I can?”

  He grinned. “Obviously you’ve got no fashion sense.” He paused. “Except maybe for the tats. Especially that Japanese koi on your arm.”

  The one he tattooed.

  The car eased against the curb, and Jeff cut the engine. I scurried out after him as he unlocked the back door to Murder Ink and followed him inside.

  Jeff turned on the lights, and the fluorescent beams gave the room an unearthly glow. He dropped his keys on the desk that was already piled with scattered papers and folders. His filing system was an abomination. He said Sylvia had set it up, but the way Sylvia’s mind worked made me wonder how he kept track of everything. I’d never told Bitsy about it, because, knowing her, she’d be here in an hour reorganizing.

  “So what now?” I asked as we went out into the front of the shop.

  Jeff turned on the lights in here, too, and the one in the window lit up, advertising that the shop was open. I studied the flash on the walls, the stock tattoos that his shop specialized in.

  “Wishing you had it this easy, Kavanaugh?” he teased.

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him.

  When Jeff had done my koi tattoo a few months back, I hadn’t wanted him to do it here. I wasn’t sure how clean this place was, and I knew you could practically eat off the floor in my shop, thanks to Bitsy. I’d made Jeff come to me.

  What I hadn’t told him was how much this place reminded me of the Ink Spot, where Mickey had first taken me in as a trainee and taught me all he knew. I was a twenty-two-year-old kid, fresh out of art school, still thinking about going to Paris and making my way. But I needed some cash to get there. I’d been mulling it over when I saw the shop. I’d given myself a crude heart tattoo on the inside of my wrist with a sewing needle and some ballpoint-pen ink when I was sixteen. I’d toyed with the idea of another tattoo, maybe one done more professionally, for a couple years, but even then I knew tattoos are permanent, and I wanted to be sure about the design.

  Mickey tsk-tsked over the heart on my wrist and suggested a Celtic cross on my upper back, stretching between my shoulder blades. I liked the idea of something that would be covered up most of the time, like a secret only I would know about and that would be with me forever. I sketched it out for him, and his eyes showed surprise that I could visualize it so well.

  Halfway through the tattoo, Mickey asked whether I’d be interested in learning the trade. He gave me an old tattoo machine and a grapefruit to practice on. I was hooked.

  The Ink Spot smelled like Jeff’s shop: ink and baby wipes and a little bit of sweat.

  It was time to go. I took a step toward the door.

  “Wait a sec,” Jeff said.

  I stopped.

  “I’m not kidding about that guy back there at the chapel,” Jeff said. “It wouldn’t hurt to see if he knows anything. Tell him you broke up with me. Tell him we have an open relationship.”

  “So you want to pimp me out for information?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Call it what you will, Kavanaugh, but I thought you wanted to find my mother, too.”

  The worry laced his expression, and I saw that all the teasing was a cover-up for his concern about Sylvia.

  “What do you
think happened to your mother and Bernie?” I asked softly.

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m not sure. I was hoping we’d find Dan Franklin. Maybe he knows. But since he’s missing, too . . .”

  He didn’t need to finish his sentence. I was thinking the same thing. Something happened with Ray Lucci’s murder that caused three people to go missing. One of them might even be a murderer. I didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened to Sylvia and Bernie.

  I nodded. “Okay, fine. I’ll call the chapel and see if I can reach that guy.” I didn’t want to tell him that I’d given Parker my card. He’d probably give me a lot of grief over that.

  “Thanks, Kavanaugh.” Jeff’s voice was soft, unlike him. It made me realize he really was human. Something that wasn’t always so apparent.

  “What about Dan Franklin?” I asked, not wanting to have an Oprah moment with Jeff Coleman. “Should I tell Tim about his wallet and that he works with animals like rats?” I had no intention of telling him about our little adventure over at Franklin’s house. Although if I planted an idea about Franklin in Tim’s head, maybe he’d start looking into Franklin’s affairs and discover the empty house and the bank withdrawal. Despite what I’d said to Jeff, it did seem that the money could have something to do with all this.

  “How are you going to explain to him how you saw the wallet?” Jeff asked.

  That was a problem, definitely. I’d already told Tim about the phone conversation, so I couldn’t now say, Hey, Dan also dropped the fact that he works with rats; you might want to check that out. I would need a better reason as to how I knew this, and not from messing around in the Dean Martin locker room at That’s Amore.

  “I’ll figure something out,” I said as I looked at my watch. It was almost noon. “Listen, I have to get to the shop. If you hear anything about Sylvia, call me. And I’ll let you know how it goes with Parker.”

  “Who?”

  I made a face at him. “Mr. Studly, as you insist on calling him.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and I wanted to leave before he thought of some other smart-aleck thing to say.

  As I reached for the door, it opened, and a woman came in.

  She wasn’t as tall as me, but she was close. She had long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a pair of large sunglasses, dark jeans and a white button-down cotton shirt, buttoned almost too high, and a long strand of red beads bouncing against an ample chest.

  She looked a little too high-class for Murder Ink.

  Except when she took off the sunglasses to reveal a dark bruise circling her right eye.

  When she saw me staring, her face went white, as if she’d seen a ghost.

  I knew why.

  I couldn’t remember her name, but about a year before I’d tattooed two ribbons circling her left biceps. One ribbon was white, the other purple.

  Both signified that she had been physically abused and survived.

  I nodded at her, but before either of us could say anything, Jeff spoke up.

  “Rosalie, what are you doing here? Did they find my mother and your father?”

  Rosalie? As in Bernie Applebaum’s daughter?

  Chapter 17

  Giving me an anxious look begging me not to reveal I knew who she was, Rosalie worried the edge of the sunglasses with long fingers tipped with short-clipped nails.

  “I haven’t heard a word,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I was hoping you’d have some news.”

  Jeff went over to her and patted her on the forearm. “I went out to the canyon. Stopped everywhere I could between here and there, but I couldn’t find them.”

  “Have you heard any more from the police about their car?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” And I could see in his face that he truly was. There was compassion there, and his own worry.

  Hated to say it, but I liked Jeff Coleman better when he wasn’t quite so human. Made him easier to deal with.

  Rosalie was looking at me out of the corner of her eye, and Jeff noticed.

  “Rosalie Marino, Brett Kavanaugh.”

  I smiled and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I said, hoping she’d see that I wasn’t about to out her.

  She took my hand limply with a couple of fingers. “Yes, nice to meet you, too.”

  “Brett’s helping with trying to track down my mother and Bernie,” Jeff explained.

  Rosalie was still looking at me, and her eyes widened, but I shrugged and, before she could say anything, added, “So far, though, we’re hitting a brick wall.” I didn’t want to get into the whole Dan Franklin thing. If we found out for sure he had something do with Sylvia and Bernie, then that would be the time to mention him.

  Rosalie looked back at Jeff and gave him a sad smile. “I’m on my way to work. Can you give me a call if you hear anything?” She pulled a piece of paper and a pen from her bag and scribbled down a number, handing it to Jeff.

  He took it and held her hand for a second. “We’ll find them, Rosalie. Don’t worry.” His expression held a tenderness I’d never seen before, and her eyes filled with tears.

  I shifted uncomfortably, uncertain what to do or say.

  My cell phone made the decision for me as it warbled Bruce Springsteen from inside my bag.

  It startled both Rosalie and Jeff, who seemed as though they had forgotten I was there.

  I took the phone out of my bag, said, “I’ll be outside,” and flipped the phone open with one hand as I pressed the door with the other. Once on the sidewalk, I said, “What’s up, Bitsy?”

  “It’s almost noon, and you’ve got a client coming in. Where are you?”

  Who needed a mother with Bitsy around? The guilt started to seep in. Sister Mary Eucharista would make me write fifty times, I will not exploit my employees while I go messing around in other people’s business. Although admittedly, I’d been asked to help, so I could be perceived as being a good friend. Somehow I’m not sure the sister would’ve seen it that way, though.

  “I’ll be there in a few,” I said. “I’m up here at Murder Ink. Bernie’s daughter just showed. She and Jeff are really worried.”

  That was the way to turn it around on the guilt, because Bitsy immediately said, “So there’s still no word from them? Where do you think they might be?”

  I quickly told her about our morning’s activities—going to the chapel and then to Dan Franklin’s house and finding it all closed up—and ended with my suspicion that Sylvia and Bernie had seen something they shouldn’t have.

  I didn’t tell her what Tim had said about Ray Lucci being Sylvia’s son. Unlike Bitsy, I can keep a secret, and, anyway, I hadn’t really thought that one through yet. How that could’ve played a role in all this.

  Because I had started wondering whether it didn’t play a role after all. It seemed as though it had to, but how, I wasn’t sure.

  Bitsy didn’t notice I was holding back and latched on to the one thing I knew she probably would. “Are you going to call this Dean Martin guy? Are you going to see if he knows something?”

  Before I got a chance to respond, she added, “You know, Brett, you’ve got the worst luck with men. Maybe this one will be different.”

  She was referring to the two men who’d been in my life in the last six months: a casino manager, who was too much of a ladies’ man for my taste, and an emergency room doctor, whom I’d completely misread and, thus, had sabotaged something that might have been good.

  “I met him for five seconds,” I said, getting defensive. “I have no idea if we’d get along or anything.”

  “But you said he liked you.” Bitsy is the ultimate romantic. She’s been married a couple of times but never gotten bitter about it. She’s dated her fair share of men and recently signed up for Match.com because, as she put it, “What else am I supposed to do with my time?”

  Bitsy was a serial dater.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  The fact that s
he’s a little person was absolutely no deterrent for the men she dated, which I found fascinating. She dated little people and tall people.

  She was still talking. “I think you should call him. Have lunch. Lunch is always good.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, watching Jeff and Rosalie through the front window. Rosalie had sunk down into one of Jeff’s chairs, and he was sitting across from her, his elbows on his knees, leaning over and talking. Her face was sagging with sadness.

  “I’ll be in shortly,” I said again, hanging up on Bitsy.

  I didn’t know whether I should go back in or just leave quietly. After a few seconds, I decided that leaving was the best thing. I didn’t want to intrude on their conversation. So I made my way over to the Bright Lights Motel and climbed into the Jeep. The gearshift stuck as I tried to put it into first, and I could hear the clutch grind.

  I wanted my car back.

  I couldn’t think about Jeff or Rosalie or Will Parker or any of it for the next couple hours. My client was already at the shop when I arrived, and I didn’t have time to say anything but a quick hello to Bitsy and Ace when I walked through the door. Joel was already with a client, and I gave him a little finger waggle as I passed his room.

  Carmella, my client, was older than me, maybe in her forties. She was here for her ninth tattoo: tribal ink on her left thigh, running from her hip to her knee. Carmella had found some designs, and I’d put together something that she was thrilled with, even though it was pretty simplistic overall and as an artist, not too challenging for me. It was time-consuming, however, and two hours later we were making arrangements to finish it up in a couple of weeks.

  Joel was leaning against the front desk when Carmella finally took off, pleased with her half tattoo.

  “Bitsy’s been filling me in. Why did you pretend you were going to marry Jeff Coleman? I would’ve gone over there with you.”

  I appreciated the thought. But Joel’s girth, his barbed-wire tattoos, the long braid that almost reached his waist now, and the chain that snaked into his pocket and held his keys all screamed biker, while his soft, lilting voice and almost girlish mannerisms revealed his true nature. No one would buy us getting married.