The Missing Ink: A Tattoo Shop Mystery

by Karen E. Olson

I was going at this all wrong. I kept focusing on the results of Elise’s actions, not on what made her run in the first place. That could tell me everything. And it just might stop these bodies from popping up.

  I had half a mind to call Tim, but he’d just tell me again to mind my own business and stay out of his. Problem was, when I’m the last person to admit seeing a missing woman and I encounter a dead person who is somehow linked to that same missing woman, it becomes more of a personal quest to find out exactly what’s going on.

  “Joel’s still not here,” Bitsy announced, her words interrupting my inner monologue. “What do I do with his client?”

  I pushed back my chair and got up. “I’ll take him. But keep trying Joel’s cell. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  Every time the phone rang, I jumped. Which wasn’t exactly comforting to the guy who was under my needle. He’d conceded to my replacing Joel, but there was that tinge of uncertainty, confirmed whenever I turned off the machine to see if I could hear whether it was Joel on the phone.

  Bitsy wasn’t as concerned, but two hours later it was clear that Joel was most definitely missing.

  “What is it about this place?” Ace muttered. “Are we all going to end up going missing? Is it going to be some weird thing, like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something?”

  “If it was Invasion of the Body Snatchers, there would be two of each of us,” Bitsy said matter-of-factly, as if this were a definite possibility. “There would be pods all over the place.”

  “Listen, guys, I know I haven’t been around much the last couple of days, but I think I know where I can at least find out where Joel might be,” I said, planning to take a trip over to Murder Ink. I’d run into Sylvia over there before; why not tonight?

  “He’s a big boy, Brett,” Ace said. “Don’t you think he can take care of himself?”

  No, I didn’t. And the look on my face must have said it all, because they both nodded.

  “Call us when you find him,” Bitsy made me promise as I went out the door.

  A long line of tourists waited for a gondola ride just across the canal from the shop. St. Mark’s Square was bustling more than usual tonight. I heard some opera singers in the distance; a musician playing a mandolin stepped into my path. I moved around him, eager to get on my way.

  I smelled food, a mix of Chinese, beef, and chocolate that was not entirely unpleasant, and for the first time since my huge lunch I felt hungry. The thought of lunch made me think again about Simon Chase. He said he hadn’t seen Elise, but I had seen him talking to Kelly’s brother, Matthew.

  Bruce Manning had said I was banned from Versailles, but he didn’t say I couldn’t call over there.

  I punched the numbers for information and got Versailles’s main line. I asked for Simon Chase, expecting to hear his secretary Penny’s voice on the other end when it picked up.

  “Yes?”

  It was him. Chase. Answering his own phone.

  “Oh, hello,” I said as casually as I could.

  “Yes? May I help you?”

  He hadn’t recognized my voice. A slight disappointment rushed through me, but then I admonished myself. Why would he recognize my voice? After only one dead body and a lunch?

  “It’s Brett.”

  Silence, then, “Oh, yes.”

  “Manning kicked me out. Said I couldn’t see you, either.”

  “Oh, yes,” he repeated. “I’m sorry about that.” There was something funny about his voice, something not normal. Sort of like my Madonna accent.

  “I forgot to ask you something at lunch.”

  “I’ll have to get back to you.”

  Because I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, I got it. “Is Manning there with you?”

  “That’s right. I’ll call you back.” And the phone went dead.

  Rejection in any form is never easy, and I told myself I shouldn’t take this personally. I stuck my phone back in my bag and walked into the parking garage. I stiffened when I saw movement to my right, but it was only a family of four heading back to their car. My Mustang was just to the left.

  I unlocked the door and slid onto the seat, sticking the key in the ignition. But before I turned her over, a flap of paper stuck under my windshield distracted me. I hated those flyers for local businesses, especially in a mall parking garage. I leaned around out the window and snagged it, ready to crumple it up and throw it on the floor.

  But the image on it made me stop.

  It was my drawing of the devotion tat. But instead of “Elise” or “Matthew,” it now said “Brett.”

  Chapter 35

  Someone was playing games with me. At first, I thought it was Bitsy or even Joel, but in light of the discovery of Matt Powell’s ink, this was more than a sick joke. Elise was missing and Matt was dead. What did that mean for me? Who was sending me a message? And, more important, why?

  Springsteen’s “Jungleland“ blared from my bag, startling me. After a second, I realized what it was and pulled out my cell phone.

  It wasn’t a call, but a text message.

  Meet me in my office. 15 min. Simon.

  He must have seen my cell number on his caller ID.

  I eased the Mustang out of the parking spot and wondered how I could go up to Chase’s office without Manning seeing me. I pulled into another spot and texted back: Banned how will I get there brett.

  Within minutes, Springsteen belted out “Jungleland” again and I read, Minnie mickey.

  That old song and dance? Really? I tossed the phone into the seat next to me and peeled out of the garage. A small part of me—a very small part, but a part just the same—was tingly with the thought of seeing Simon Chase again. So I wasn’t sure if he was a murderer, and I knew he was a playboy, but he looked mighty fine.

  No Dodge Dakotas followed me as I made my way to Versailles, and once I got there, I saw a small sign for self-parking, so I veered to the right before the valets caught sight of me. The parking garage was surrounded by those hedge animals, and I kept close to the edge, just in case Bruce Manning happened to look out a window and see me coming.

  The lobby was more difficult.Those mirrors showed hundreds of me, and if circumstances were different, I might be making sure my hair and makeup looked good. As it was, I ducked behind one of those big flower arrangements when I saw Chip Manning emerge from the hallway where the elevators were tucked away.

  A woman with platinum blond hair styled in a flip like Marilyn Monroe was right behind him, and he stopped to let her catch up. She wore a tight-fitting dress that hugged all her curves. Chip put his arm around her waist.

  I blinked a couple of times. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. They were laughing, her face tinged with a blush as he whispered something in her ear.

  He hadn’t wasted any time.

  They came closer, and I ducked so I was now eye level with the marble table, the orchids hanging over my head. A quick glance in the mirror told me that hiding wasn’t my number one accomplishment, but insanity might be. However, I stayed put. Especially since Bruce Manning had come around the corner.

  From the look on Chip’s face, I could tell he wanted to Be the Table, too, but he wasn’t close enough to blend in. As it was, he pushed the poor girl he was with aside, and she stumbled, slipping on the newly waxed floor and landing with a thud on the other side of my table. She frowned at me as Bruce Manning helped her up. I had stopped breathing.

  “Are you all right, young lady?” Manning asked.

  “I’m fine—”

  “Chipper, I need you upstairs now.” Manning didn’t give two hoots about that girl. His feet started walking away. Chip went after him, scurrying to keep up.

  I peered up over the edge of the table. The girl looked perplexed at being abandoned, and I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t afford to have Manning turn around and find me here. I didn’t want to risk getting banned from Versailles a second time. What would happen then? Would he hoist me on t
op of one of those slot machines and lop off my head? Or would he let the Bastille crowd run me down?

  I might have been overreacting, but the man had scared the crap out of me. And even though I was here at Simon Chase’s request, I didn’t think it would bode well for Chase, either, if Manning found me here.

  I approached the front desk when I was sure Manning was far out of sight. The concierge recognized me from yesterday.

  “You—” he started.

  I put my finger to my lips and shushed him. “Minnie to see Mickey,” I whispered, feeling like an idiot.

  A knowing look crossed his face, and I began to wonder just why that little code had been devised. Perhaps they thought my tattoo story was a cover for a real painted lady. Great. I totally had to think about renaming my shop.

  Unlike yesterday, I was put in the elevator alone. I punched the floor for Simon Chase’s office—I hoped it was the right one, if memory served—and the box lurched upward. When the doors opened, I stepped into silence.

  The office was at the end of the hall to my left.

  I tapped on the outer door. It wasn’t shut all the way. I peered around it, but saw no one. Penny was probably gone for the day, since it was after five. I stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

  The door to Simon’s office was slightly ajar, but I didn’t hear anything inside.

  A cold chill crept up my spine.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have put my fingerprints on that door. Because I was having some serious déjà vu.

  I strained my ears to pick up any sound at all.

  Nothing, except my heart pounding in my chest.

  I didn’t want any more surprises. If I tiptoed out of here, no one would be the wiser. I went back the way I came. Because the door was shut, I had to put my hand back on the doorknob.

  I twisted it.

  Twice.

  My hand slid off the knob both times.

  Throwing caution to the wind, risking the noise, I jiggled it. But nothing happened.

  I was locked in.

  Chapter 36

  A phone rang somewhere in the distance, and I realized it was in Chase’s office. I counted four rings before it stopped.

  I tiptoed—as well as one can tiptoe in heels—back over to the door to the inner sanctum. I nudged the door with my toe and it moved inward slightly, enough so I could see most of the office, except for the area just behind the couch. I nudged the door a little more, getting a little braver, since it really did seem as though I was alone.

  Still, the blood hammering in my ears meant I was expecting the worst.

  A few steps and I was in Chase’s office. I tentatively moved around the couch, sighing with relief when I didn’t see anyone behind it. A quick look around the rest of the room didn’t turn up any bodies, either, and even the bathroom was empty.

  It wasn’t until I’d completely cased the joint that I began to realize that I shouldn’t be alone here. I should’ve just stayed outside in the hall.

  I went over hypotheticals: a) Chase would show up and apologize for locking me in, even inadvertently; b) Manning would find me and have me arrested for breaking and entering, even though I hadn’t actually broken anything; c) Chip would come in for an afternoon cocktail and demand again that I tattoo his chest.

  Of course, Door Number One was the best-case scenario, but with my luck, it would be one of the other two.

  I went over to Chase’s long mahogany desk and plopped my butt in his leather chair that felt like butter. I spun around a couple of times like a kid, then took my phone out of my bag.

  I hit a few buttons and checked the text messages again, to make sure Chase had asked me to be here in fifteen minutes, which was what I remembered.

  That was what the message said, but then I had another, paranoid thought. When Simon Chase had called me at the shop for lunch, I’d jotted down his number from the caller ID and stuck it in my cell phone. Just in case something happened and I had to let him know plans had to change. Right.

  I scrolled through my contacts list and found it.

  But there was a problem. The number those text messages had come from wasn’t Simon Chase’s. Which was why it hadn’t shown up on my caller ID. I hadn’t even questioned it.

  I hate it when paranoia is justified. My chest felt like it had three-ton weights on it. Who had sent me those text messages? But more important, from my new vantage point, I was in a man’s office uninvited.

  I surveyed Simon Chase’s desk as I thought about how I’d definitely been set up this time. And for what reason? Why did someone want me to come here? There was no dead body.

  The message light on Chase’s fancy phone was blinking at me. Right. The call that had come in while I was hovering outside the door.

  I had nothing else to do, so I grabbed a Kleenex out of the box on the corner of the desk, wrapped it around my finger—my prints could still be here from yesterday, but I wasn’t going to take any chances—and hit the button that said MESSAGES. Seemed clear-cut.

  “Chase, we need to take care of that little problem.” I recognized Manning’s voice. “Meet me in the lobby at six.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost six now. Too bad Chase wasn’t here to get his message and take care of whatever it was Manning was concerned about. But how did I know he wasn’t on his way back from wherever he was?

  I debated whom I should call. Definitely not Tim. He would arrest me, probably, and keep me under house arrest for the next five years. Joel was always the first person I thought of, and so out of habit I tried his number, even though he hadn’t been answering his cell for a while now.

  “Hello?”

  Hearing his voice startled me so much I almost slid off that slippery chair.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. Didn’t get your messages. I left my phone in the car by accident.”

  “Where did you go?” I was acutely aware that my voice was bouncing off the walls echo-style in this room, so I lowered my voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Took Sylvia home, and she ended up making an early dinner for me. She told me some crazy stories about the old days.”

  “Crazy” was the right word for Sylvia.

  “You know, I had to take your client,” I said, barely above a whisper.

  “I’m sorry; I forgot about him.”

  “I took care of it,” I said, whispering now. I didn’t much care at this moment whether Joel missed a client or not, although we’d revisit this later, when I was out of this jam.

  “Thanks. Hey, why is your voice so quiet? Where are you?”

  I told him, and I told him how I had ended up here. “I need someone to get me out before Chase or Manning shows up and finds me here.”

  “Why would someone pretend to be Chase and ask you to go there?”

  I had no clue.

  “Why don’t you text back and ask?”

  “Now there’s something I hadn’t thought of. Text the murderer, or whoever he is, and ask directly what’s up.”

  Joel was quiet a second, then, “Why not?”

  Had to admit, the idea was growing on me. But first things first.

  “Just come and get me, okay?” I paused. “Tell the guy at the front desk that you’re Minnie to see Mickey.” Considering Joel’s suspected persuasion, that wasn’t far from the truth.

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Yeah, it is. But it’ll get you up here.”

  “Where exactly do I go?”

  I told him which floor and gave him directions to Chase’s office. “How soon can you be here? I really can’t have Chase find me.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him what happened?”

  “Because that’s like Lucy trying to explain to Ricky why she’s sitting out on the ledge.”

  “All right, all right. I’m only about ten minutes out. Hang tight.” And he ended the call.

  Hanging tight was about all I could do. Except . . . well, I was in Chase’s office, and there
really should be a twelve-step program for snooping. With nothing on top of the desk, I tried the drawers—forgetting the Kleenex until it was too late—but they were locked. Looked like I wasn’t going to be falling off the wagon.

  There wasn’t even a computer or a laptop or anything that looked remotely interesting. Except maybe the bar.

  The little fridge wasn’t locked, and it was well stocked with Heineken and Corona. I took a bottle of the latter, twisted off the top, and shoved a slice of lime I found in a little bowl down the neck. It fizzled as it sank, and I took a long drink. It was cold and satisfying. I took another swallow. I’d have to slow down, though, because if I didn’t watch out, I’d end up passed out on the couch like Chip.

  Bored, I paced the room, eyeing a door that was probably a closet. I had nothing better to do, so I pulled on the knob.

  It was more than a closet. It was the size of my bedroom, with about fifty monitors flickering gray and white images of the casino floor, the lobby, the restaurants, even the restrooms.

  Nothing was hidden in Vegas; little black domes in the ceilings of every resort and casino displayed the good, the bad, and the ugly. Everyone was watched constantly. Cheating was not to be tolerated, at least in the gambling sense.

  I suspected that this wasn’t the only room with monitors; Versailles probably had a whole floor of security personnel checking them out. This was probably a backup for Chase’s own personal pleasure.

  I scanned the casino monitors, watched some people playing blackjack, roulette. I didn’t understand craps, even though Tim had tried to explain it hundreds of times. He said it was the only game you could actually really win.

  The lobby flickered with reflections off the mirrors, and something familiar caught my eye. Joel was lumbering through the front revolving door; he made better time than he’d expected. My heart jumped with the thought that I’d be out of here soon and no one would be the wiser.

  I was getting used to the silence when the phone on Chase’s desk rang again, the unexpected sound causing me to spit beer on myself. Great. Now I’d smell like a brewery when Joel got here. He’d think I was enjoying myself. Hey, get locked in a casino office and have a kegger.