The Missing Ink: A Tattoo Shop Mystery

by Karen E. Olson

  I got the top caught on one of my hoop earrings. Or maybe two of them. I wandered out of the dressing room with it stuck on my head, my bra and dragon exposed for all to see. Not to mention the tiger lily that stretched along the side of my torso from my breast to my hip. And the Celtic cross on my upper back.

  Joel chuckled as he set the top free, and it settled on my frame like it was supposed to.

  Joel stepped back and studied me, cocking his head from side to side. “Hold on a sec,” he said, and he disappeared, reappearing a minute later with a pair of red patent-leather pumps with a heel that was at least four inches high. They rivaled the Kenneth Cole shoes; in fact, I liked them even better.

  I slipped them on and stood slightly taller than Joel, who was nodding so hard I thought he’d turned into a bobble-head doll.

  “That’s it,” he said, “that’s the one.”

  I stepped in front of the three-way mirror and had to admit it looked good. I would never have chosen this for myself, but Joel had taste. The manager was nice enough to snip off the tags so I could wear the new clothes out of the store, and she bagged up the old ones.

  We walked back to the shop, looping around the canal and passing Breathe, the oxygen bar. Ace sat on the end stool, the oxygen tube in his nose, a short Asian girl massaging his back with something that looked like a large fork.

  Joel sighed as he shook his head at me. Ace was addicted to the aromatherapy oxygen, swore it gave him more energy. His eyes were closed, his face serene as he sucked in that air.

  I just hoped they changed those tubes so Ace wasn’t sticking someone else’s snot up his nose every time.

  My outfit got murmurs of approval from Bitsy. Since she’d canceled all our appointments until late afternoon, we didn’t have anything to do, and Joel wouldn’t let me finish my coffee because he thought I’d spill on my new white trousers.

  He was probably right. I drank a Pellegrino.

  The shop was gussied up, too, like the rest of us: A fresh spray of purple orchids had replaced the sad little white one on the front desk; the floor gleamed.

  Ace came back about fifteen minutes later, his eyes alert.

  “What time are they coming?” Ace asked Bitsy, who’d scheduled everything.

  I didn’t hang around to hear her answer; I went into the staff room and saw that all the piles of stencils I’d made had been filed neatly. I was getting too nervous to start the stencil I needed for later that day, so I turned on the TV, channel surfing until I saw a familiar face on CNN.

  Elise Lyon was still missing.

  But the media had caught wind of last night’s twist.

  “In a related story, a young woman named Kelly Masters was shot and killed and found in her car at McCarran International Airport yesterday afternoon,” the anchor was saying.

  Joel came in and started to say something, but I waved in his general direction, shushing him.

  “Police believe Kelly Masters may have had some connection with Elise Lyon’s disappearance.”

  I held my breath.

  “Police found Elise Lyon’s driver’s license under the seat of the car.”

  Chapter 14

  They were connected. Elise was posing as Kelly, and Kelly had Elise’s license. Had Kelly planned to pose as Elise? What was the deal between them? Had they switched iden tities for some reason?

  I didn’t have time to ponder it any further, because the TV crew had arrived. The producer brought in a couple of camera and sound guys and proceeded to rearrange the area Bitsy and Ace had arranged the night before. Lights went up, blasting hot rays. I was glad my new blouse was sleeveless.

  Bitsy coordinated it all. Ace, Joel, and I hovered in the background. Until the producer shouted, “Brett Kavanaugh? Who is Brett?”

  I raised my hand like I was in fourth grade, and he came over to me. “This segment will be taped, and we’ll air it tonight. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  “We need to mike you.”

  I indicated Bitsy, who I could see was chomping at the bit. “She was here, too. Her name is Bitsy Hendricks; she talked to Kelly—I mean Elise—too.”

  The producer glanced at Bitsy, and while I didn’t see his expression change, I felt a distinct chill in the air. “We only have two minutes on air. We only have time for one of you.”

  He held the mike, which was attached to a small black box by a long wire. I put my hand on it and shoved it toward him. “Then interview Bitsy, okay?”

  He didn’t even look at Bitsy. “No. You. You’re the owner.” Like that made me the only grown-up in the room. I could see by the set of his mouth that he wasn’t going to argue this with me, that he was right and I was wrong, so I nodded, shrugging at Bitsy, who looked like she was getting ready to call her lawyer to file a discrimination suit against ABC. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  The producer fastened the black box on the back of my trousers. “I’m going to feed the wire up through your shirt. Can you grab it and bring it up around to your collar?”

  He got it halfway up without even touching my skin, and I managed to pull it up and out near my neck. He fastened the mike on my blouse and started to lead me toward the sofa when the door opened.

  The Asian woman who glided into the room was half a foot shorter than I was, with sleek black hair pulled into a tight chignon at the back of her head. Her handshake was firm.

  “Alison Cho, 20/20,” she said. “Where are we doing this?” She fingered the long strand of pearls that rested gently against a filmy cream-colored silk blouse. She may have been short, but she had a certain presence, a charisma about her that no doubt would be picked up by the camera.

  “Where’s Diane Sawyer?” Bitsy’s voice echoed across the shop and bounced off the wall.

  A flash of something—annoyance—was gone in a second before Alison Cho turned to Bitsy and smiled. “I’m doing the interview,” she said firmly, ignoring Bitsy’s expression, which clearly relayed that this was unacceptable, and turned to Joel and Ace, shaking their hands. Someone handed her a water, but she didn’t open it.

  They’d set up a chair for her across from the couch, and I settled in, jostling the black box at my waist a little. I shifted so I wouldn’t lean against it, acutely aware that I couldn’t slouch, trying to keep my back ramrod straight.

  “Don’t look directly into the camera,” she advised.

  I had no intention of looking at it at all.

  Alison Cho had no issues with looking at the camera, though.

  “Today we’re speaking with Brett Kavanaugh, owner of The Painted Lady tattoo shop in Las Vegas, where Elise Lyon was last seen alive.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way, and it made me shiver.

  Alison swung her head around and looked me straight in the eye. “What was her demeanor that night? Did she seem well? Or agitated?”

  “She was fine. Relaxed.”

  The voice that came out of my mouth didn’t sound like mine; rather, it was like I was somewhere else and hearing myself through a tunnel. My heart was pounding, and I hoped I wasn’t sweating through the purple top.

  “She came in for a devotion tattoo, correct?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Please explain what that is.”

  “It’s a tattoo that has the name of a loved one on it. Kelly—I mean Elise—wanted the name in a heart with two clasped hands.” Maybe more information than anyone needed, but Alison seemed interested.

  “She made an appointment for the tattoo?” she prompted.

  I nodded again. “For the next day. But she didn’t show up.”

  “And no one saw her again,” she said ominously to the camera. “We have a copy of the devotion tattoo Elise Lyon requested,” she said, holding up the sketch I’d drawn. Elise’s original drawing was still in my bag, where I’d put it before heading to Murder Ink last night.

  I instinctively glanced at Bitsy, who was frowning. She probably gave the sketch to the producer, thinking he�
��d put her on camera, and then he screwed her.

  But Bitsy wasn’t the only one getting screwed.

  Chip Manning was, too.

  Because the camera zoomed in on my sketch. Complete with the “Matthew” inside the heart.

  Alison Cho didn’t notice. She put the piece of paper in her lap and thanked me for my time.

  It was over.

  I stood up, trying to yank the mike and wire off my person, and was happy to see the producer come over to me. I assumed he’d help me out, but his mouth was set in a grim line.

  “That drawing. It was the wrong one.”

  Alison’s head snapped back. “What?”

  “It was the wrong drawing.” He looked at Bitsy, who’d come up next to me. “Why didn’t you give me the right one? Was it because we didn’t put you on camera?”

  So Bitsy’s attitude had not gone unnoticed.

  From the look on her face, I could see she was going to say something she’d probably regret, so I jumped in. “It was the right one.”

  His gaze moved from Bitsy to me. “But it said Matthew. Not Chip, or even Bruce.”

  “That’s right.” I met his stare.

  “You mean she wanted a tattoo with another man’s name on it?” Alison was justifiably curious, her journalistic instincts kicking into full gear.

  I took a page from Tim’s playbook. “No comment,” I said.

  Alison Cho looked like she’d just landed an interview with Osama bin Laden. “Do the police know about this?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I can’t say anything else.”

  Alison turned to the producer. “Get the police spokesman on the phone. We need to get over there now and find out what this is about.” She looked at me one last time. “This is your chance to have another few minutes on TV.”

  I tossed the black box to the producer. “I didn’t want the ones I just had.”

  She smiled. “Suit yourself. Thank you for your time, and for letting us disrupt your business.”

  She was nice, I had to give her that, but I was glad when they were all gone and the shop was quiet.

  “Do you think they’ll get anything out of the police?” Ace asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Maybe the cops will want the media’s help in finding her, and this was a pretty interesting clue.” I thought about the two Matthews again. If I’d found out about them so easily, then it wouldn’t take the police long, either.

  Ace and Bitsy moved the furniture back to where it belonged, and I grabbed the Ann Taylor bag. I needed to change before my first client came in. I didn’t want to risk getting ink on my new trousers.

  I had to admit that I was liking them. I wondered how they’d look on TV tonight.

  Just as I was about to go into the bathroom to change, the phone rang on the front desk. Bitsy was in the staff room with Ace and Joel, so I picked it up.

  “The Painted Lady,” I said.

  “Kavanaugh?” I recognized Jeff Coleman’s voice.

  “Yeah? What do you want?”

  “I really thought I could trust you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a good thing I’ve got better friends than you, friends who look out for me.”

  “What do you mean?” I didn’t point out that we weren’t exactly friends.

  “Cops. They’ve got a warrant. They want to arrest me in Kelly’s murder.”

  Chapter 15

  “Where are you, Jeff?” I asked.

  “No need for you to know that.”

  “I didn’t say anything. I haven’t even seen my brother since yesterday morning,” I said. He didn’t have to know I might have told Tim if I’d seen him.

  Jeff was quiet a moment, then, “There’s something going on.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Someone’s setting me up. I heard the cops found my fingerprints in that car, the rental car. Couldn’t have. I haven’t seen Kelly. Didn’t know she was in town.”

  “I believe you, Jeff.” I didn’t know what else to say. And strangely enough, I did believe him.

  “There’s something else, Kavanaugh.”

  I didn’t like it that he called me by my last name, but he was a man on the run, so could I take that away from him?

  “What is it?”

  “That rich bitch? Guess the cops also want to talk to me about her.”

  “But I thought you hadn’t met her.”

  “They found her driver’s license with Kelly.”

  “I saw that on the news.”

  “What’s going on, Kavanaugh? You show up at my shop last night and my whole world collapses. You’re bad news.”

  “It’s not my fault,” I insisted. “Listen, Jeff, what can I do to help? Want me to talk to Tim? Where are you?”

  He was so quiet I’d thought he hung up for a second, then, “There might be something you can do. But it’s not talking to the cops.”

  I was afraid to press him, to find out what he wanted me to do. I shouldn’t have been so generous, but it just slipped out. The sisters had taught us to be magnanimous to those who were in need.

  Sister Mary Eucharista would’ve taken one look at Jeff Coleman and let me off the hook.

  He wasn’t about to let me off the hook, however.

  “I need you to cover for me.”

  I wasn’t liking the idea of this.

  “Cover what?” I asked when he hesitated.

  “I’ve got a high-profile client who won’t come to the shop. He wants Mick Jagger’s tongue on his ass. I’m supposed to be there at three. For obvious reasons, Kavanaugh, I can’t be. But you can. I’ll split the fee with you fifty-fifty.”

  “Why don’t you just cancel?” Seemed reasonable to me.

  “You don’t cancel this guy. He won’t call again if I do. He’s paying a cool grand. It’s easy money, Kavanaugh.”

  “Jeff, that’s highway robbery. That Rolling Stones logo’s got to be one of the easiest tats ever.”

  “He doesn’t care. So I don’t care. Will you do it?”

  “Why me? Why not one of your staff?”

  “Because the cops are watching the shop. I don’t want them following anyone to this guy.”

  My curiosity was piqued. “Who is he? Howard Hughes?”

  When Jeff told me who it was, a shiver ran up my spine. But not in a bad way. I couldn’t say no.

  “Where and when?”

  He chuckled. “Knew you’d do it. Versailles. That new resort, the big one.”

  “I know it.”

  “The Marie Antoinette Suite. Three o’clock.”

  I hadn’t taken my equipment anywhere in a long time and wondered whether I had a proper case for it. “Sure, okay,” I said. “Can I just go up there?”

  “He’ll be expecting you. Just tell the guy at the desk that you’re Minnie to see Mickey.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Serious as murder.”

  I cringed, but didn’t argue. “Will you be okay?” I asked.

  “Sure, don’t worry. And thanks, Kavanaugh. I knew I could count on you.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  Bitsy was staring at me.

  “Who was that?”

  “Jeff Coleman.”

  “That scumbag?”

  “His ex-wife was Kelly Masters.”

  Bitsy’s mouth formed a perfect “O.” I touched her chin and pushed up, closing her mouth.

  “Why’s he calling you?” Bitsy wanted to know.

  I didn’t want to tell her that I’d made a visit to Jeff’s shop last night. “He knows Tim’s a cop. He wanted to know if I had any inside scoop on her murder.” As I said it, I wished I did. “Oh, by the way, do we have any sort of bag or case I can use for my equipment? Got a house call at three.”

  Bitsy’s eyebrows shot so far up her forehead I thought they’d go into orbit. “What? I don’t know anything about that.”

  “A friend of a friend,” I lied easily. “Sorry,
forgot to tell you.”

  Ace overheard our conversation. “I’ve got a case you can use,” he said. “Used to do parties. It’s under my table. I’ll get it for you.”

  He sauntered off, and I asked Bitsy to stock the case while I was with my next client, who walked in just at that moment, letting me off the hook—but not for long.

  I was in the middle of a Cinderella castle on the back of the client’s thigh when the door to my room opened slightly, Tim leaning around it. His shoulders were stiff in the sport jacket, his mouth set in a grim line. He caught my eye and cocked his head to indicate that I should come out.

  “I need a couple minutes,” I told the girl in front of me as I peeled off the latex gloves. “You want a soda or anything?”

  She was texting someone on her phone and shook her head.

  Joel mouthed, What’s up? as I passed him, and I shrugged as I followed Tim into the staff room. He shut the door behind me.

  “What do you know about Jeff Coleman?”

  “Hi, hello, nice to see you for the first time in two days,” I said, eager to put off this conversation, especially since I could feel my hands start to get clammy.

  I wasn’t a good liar.

  He relaxed slightly, but kept his hands on his hips. “Sorry, but I’ve been pretty busy. I need to know what you know about Coleman. He’s got a shop up near Fremont, and you always seem to know everyone.”

  As he said it, I realized it was true. I was never Miss Popular, but I always managed to keep up on who was who in the worlds I traveled in. It was always good to know who your enemies were, as well as your friends.

  “Yeah, I know Coleman. He’s a jerk.” I said it too loud, and Tim came so close our noses were almost touching.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  I didn’t have to lie this time. “No. Should I?”

  “He was married to Kelly Masters.”

  I hoped I had what looked like surprise all over my face.

  “You don’t look like that’s news to you,” Tim accused.

  So it was more like egg on my face. Figured.

  “I might have heard something,” I admitted.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”