by Judy Clemens
“But?” I said.
Rusty grunted. “Lance spent a lot of time and effort, not to mention money, trying to prove Wolf plagiarized his work. Never did amount to anything but a pain in the ass, and he finally slunk away with his tail between his legs.”
“Did he threaten Wolf and Mandy?”
“Lots of times. But only with money stuff. Never violence.”
“But you’re still calling to tell me this.”
Rusty sighed again. “Thunderbolt was humiliated. Basically told by the entire community that Wolf’s art made his look like little kid scribbles. Or worse. Who knows where that could lead a man?”
I leaned against the wall, thinking. “So when exactly did this happen?”
“Started in…well, Forged in Ink was in April. So it was from then until, I’d say, about October till he finally gave it up.”
“So pretty recent.”
“And who knows? Maybe something happened to remind him.”
I picked up a pen. “You got information where my detective could reach him?”
He rattled off the business name—Ink Warrior—and where he was located in Pennsburg.
“I already been by his place, and it’s locked up tight. Thought if he had anything to do with Wolf’s kidnapping, with Mandy’s… Anyway, I wanted first crack at him. But he ain’t there. So you can tell your detective, but I don’t know what good it’ll do her.”
“Thanks, Rusty. Where are you these days, anyway? Still in Philly?”
“Actually, no. Moved up to North Wales. Wanted to be more in the country.”
“The country? Up here in development heaven?”
“Compared to Philly it’s the country. No skyscrapers.”
“Okay. I hear what you’re saying. Thanks.”
I hung up and walked out of the kitchen to the foyer, where I pulled the detective’s card from my coveralls. I could feel eyes on me—wasn’t sure whose, exactly—but didn’t look back.
Back in the kitchen I dialed Shisler’s cell phone, and she answered before I’d heard a complete ring.
“Stella Crown,” I said. “Got something for you.”
“Shoot.”
I relayed Rusty’s story, as well as his and Thunderbolt’s contact information. I cringed as I gave out his name, but knew he’d okayed it. For Wolf and Mandy.
“Thanks, Ms. Crown,” Shisler said. “I’ll get on this right away.”
I hung up, wondering what else I could do, but couldn’t come up with anything. I reluctantly joined the others in the living room, where Tess was taking Nick through the newest Spy Fox game on the computer we’d gotten as a hand-me-down from Zach Granger, my summertime fourteen-year-old farm helper. Nick and Lucy both looked up at my entrance.
“News?” Lucy asked.
“Just info to pass on to the detective.” I stood behind the couch.
“Okay,” Lucy said. “How about doing something all of us can play, now that Stella’s off the phone?”
I groaned.
“Come on,” Lucy said. “It’ll get your mind off things. How about a round of good old Uno, or Dutch Blitz?”
“Dutch Blitz?” Nick said.
“It’s a Pennsylvania Dutch game,” Lucy said. “I’ll show you.” She grabbed a small box from the cupboard and tossed it to him.
“‘A Vonderful Goot Game!’?” he said, reading from the cover, which displayed drawings of an Amish boy and girl.
“Told you. P.A. Dutch. I’ve got aunts and uncles who speak like that. Anyway, there are four decks of cards. You want to be the pumps, buggies, barrels, or hand plows?”
“If I have to play,” I said, “I’m the pumps. I’m always the pumps.”
Lucy threw them to me and distributed the others. “Now we shuffle, deal them out, and try to be the first to get rid of our ten-pile and make the most points.”
Nick was lost. But Lucy was a good teacher and it gave me an opportunity to watch Nick as he listened. He really was nice, as Lucy had said. And darn it, he was more than cute.
Before we knew it, Nick and Tess were going head-to-head at the speedy game, and Lucy and I wound up throwing in the towel and letting them go at it.
“Losers have to put the game away!” Tess announced. Lucy and I rounded up all the cards and rubber-banded them into stacks.
“And the winners,” Lucy said, “or the youngest winner, anyway, has to go to bed.”
“Aw, Mom…”
My heart started pounding. If they went to bed, that meant it was getting close to my bedtime, too, and I didn’t want to sleep, not after yesterday. But if I didn’t go up, I’d be all alone with Nick. Two uncomfortable choices.
Lucy herded Tess toward the stairs before I’d made any kind of decision. “Goodnight, you two.”
“’Night,” Nick said.
I waved.
The door at the bottom of the stairs shut.
I clasped my hands together and placed them on my ankles, since I was sitting crossed-legged on the floor. Nick looked up from where he lay on his stomach across from me, leaning on his elbows. I avoided his eyes.
“You want to talk about your friends?” Nick asked.
“No.”
He was silent. “Okay, then. How about this? I’ve been here about…” He looked at the clock. “Twenty-eight hours. If you don’t want to talk about your friends, do you think maybe we could talk about something other than the weather or the farm?”
I ran a finger over my new tattoo, buying whatever time I could. “Like what?”
Nick was sitting up now, his back against the TV stand. He draped his hands over his bended knees and studied them.
“Lucy and Tess are nice,” he said, unconsciously echoing Lucy’s thoughts about him.
“They are,” I said. “They’re the best.”
He looked up. “But you miss Howie.”
“Of course I do. He was… Yes. I miss him.”
The wall clock ticked, filling the silence.
“I’m sorry about what happened this summer. I mean, besides Howie. Your farm problems, and all.” He gestured toward my arm. “Your accident.”
I glanced down to where my mutilated tattoo was hidden under my flannel shirt. “How’d you know about that?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Just because I left doesn’t mean I didn’t check up on you.”
My chin jerked up. “What? How?” How, again.
“Combination of things. The Internet. A few phone calls.”
“Phone calls? To who?”
He grimaced. “Don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“Nick, who did you call?”
He looked away, then back at me. “Your vet.”
“Carla?”
“Yeah. Her.”
Carla Beaumont, my veterinarian, a close friend who had admired Nick’s looks along with me. She’d been in touch with him and hadn’t told me? I knew who I’d be calling the next day.
“I haven’t talked to her recently,” Nick said. “Just a week or so after I left. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
I swallowed. “I assumed when you didn’t call here that you wanted to forget it all. Forget me.”
“What? You don’t think I figured the same about you? That you were glad to be rid of me? After all, I’m a developer.” His voice caught, and I cleared my throat uncomfortably, touching my new tattoo.
“I was in shock. You had lied to me, saying you were a barn painter.”
“So it’s all my fault. You blame me.”
I balled up my hands and pushed on my thighs. “I wasn’t the one pretending to be something I wasn’t.”
“Oh, no. You’re so sure of who you are. What’s important.” He pushed himself off the floor and looked down at me. “It’s too bad your priorities tend to lean toward bovines and buildings instead of people.”
I stood up, seeing him eye-to-eye across the room. “What’s that supposed to mean
?”
“I think you know. Now, I’m going to bed.”
“Fine. The roads should be good for driving tomorrow, so you want to get plenty of sleep for your trip home.”
His jaw bunched, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the next room, where the sofa sat, waiting for him.
I stayed for a moment, hands on my hips, breathing deeply and trying to relax my neck. Nick should know I had to keep my farm and protect it if I wanted to stay connected to my history, my life.
Shit.
I flipped on the TV and saw nothing but cop shows with autopsied murder victims. Not exactly what I needed.
I turned out the lights and went to bed.
Chapter Seven
I was the first up in the morning, having slept like a rock, despite my fears. I awoke with a start and jumped out of bed, heart pounding. What if something had happened while I was asleep? I flung open my door and dove into the hallway, where all was quiet, of course. I forced myself to take a deep breath. Everything was fine. Just fine.
I used the bathroom, then tiptoed downstairs. I turned on the kitchen light and worked as quietly as I could to get my breakfast. I was standing at the kitchen sink, eating a piece of peanut butter toast, when I heard a noise behind me.
“Morning, Lucy,” I said.
When she didn’t answer, I turned and saw Nick in the doorway.
“Oh,” I said.
He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Okay if I watch the news, check on weather?”
“Be my guest.”
He went back into the living room, and I heard the TV click on, voices droning about the day. I stood in the doorway just long enough to see there were no new developments about Wolf and Mandy. Wolf was still missing. Mandy was still dead.
I was back at the sink, choking down my toast, when I heard the stairway door close, and Lucy talking to Nick. I braced myself.
“So things didn’t go well last night?” she asked quietly when she came into the kitchen.
I shrugged. “I slept good.”
Lucy sighed, crossing her arms. “He looks bad.”
I leaned forward on the sink, bracing my hands on the edge of the counter.
She clucked her tongue. “You don’t look so good, either.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She sucked in her breath.
“Sorry,” I said. “Sorry.”
She walked up beside me and gazed out the window at the yard and barn, lit in the glow of the dusk-to-dawn light. “Anything I can help with?”
I turned away, grabbing a glass from the cupboard. I filled it with milk and drank the whole thing. “Not unless you want to find Wolf.”
Not fair, and I knew it.
“Okay,” she said kindly. “I’ll leave you alone.”
I set my glass on the counter and walked into the living room, where Nick stood in front of the TV.
“What are they saying?” I asked.
His shoulders tightened. “Another storm’s on its way. Already hitting Virginia. All the Harrisonburg area schools are closed.” He paused. “You’ll just get a few snow showers here.”
“Will you be able to get home?”
“As long as they don’t declare it a snow emergency in Virginia. But that seems likely to happen soon.”
I rubbed my forehead and sighed. “You can stay today yet, if you want.”
He turned and looked at me.
I avoided his eyes.
“Really?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Sounds like you shouldn’t be on the road down there.”
“I’ll help work again.”
“Whatever.”
I went over to the entryway and started pulling on my coveralls. I could feel him watching me as I clothed myself in layers, until I walked out the door. Twenty minutes later he joined me in the barn, where he was greeted effusively by Queenie, who hadn’t been nearly so enthusiastic when I’d arrived. Once he’d given her a good rub-down, Nick started on the jobs he’d done the last two times in milking. At least he was a quick learner.
Lucy checked on us partway through, then went about other business, visiting the heifers and calves and making sure nothing more had frozen. Our luck held, and we didn’t have to drag out the hair dryer again.
When we finished, I turned to Nick. “I’m going to make some calls.”
He nodded, his hands in his pockets. “Okay. I guess I’ll go find Lucy. See if she needs any help.”
“Fine.”
He left with Queenie—the traitor—trotting behind him. I went to my office and shucked my hat, pulling out my phone book. Once again, the number I needed was in the house, but I didn’t want to go get it. No need. Rusty Oldham’s new number in North Wales was listed. He answered after three rings, his voice crusty from sleep.
“Sorry to wake you,” I said.
“No problem. What’s up? News about Wolf?”
“Unfortunately, no. I was calling to see if I could come by, have you look at a tattoo, talk about Wolf and Mandy a bit. You open today?”
“Wasn’t gonna be, but I’m not doing nothing. Becky and the girls are off doing some last-minute Christmas shopping. They let me beg off. So come on over.”
He gave me directions to his shop, and I was pulling my hat back on when I glanced at the wall and saw the calendar from Carla’s veterinarian practice. The little sneak, talking to Nick and never telling me. I picked up the phone and called her house. No answer, except for her machine, which suggested I try the clinic. I called there and the receptionist answered.
“Dr. Beaumont? Sorry. She’s out of the office until after Christmas. If you have an emergency, I can put you through to one of the other doctors.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m a friend of hers. Stella Crown. Just trying to find her.”
“Oh, Ms. Crown! Sure. Dr. Beaumont went up to State College, visiting her folks. She’ll be back in a few days. Want me to leave her a message?”
Duh. Christmas-time. Of course she’d be with her family.
“No message. I’ll get in touch with her when she’s back. Thanks.”
I hung up, pulled on my hat, and went to find Lucy. She was in the house, starting a load of laundry.
“I’m going out for a while,” I said.
“Where to?”
“Tattoo place. Rusty Oldham’s.”
Her eyes flicked toward the living room. “And Nick?”
“What about him?”
“You taking him with you?”
I blinked. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Her eyes flashed. “Stella, the man is here to see you, not us.”
“Well, I didn’t ask him to come.”
She stared at me. “He can’t go home, although I wouldn’t blame him if he tried. The roads in Harrisonburg and the surrounding counties were just declared off-limits to non-emergency drivers.”
I sighed, rubbing my eyes. “Fine. Fine. I’ll take him with me.”
Chapter Eight
I slid a Kenny Wayne Shepherd tape into my truck’s stereo for the ride to Rusty’s, thinking it would ease the silence, or at least keep us from having to talk. But “Deja Voodoo” soon came on, and I realized that a song about nighttime desires featuring someone of the opposite gender—tossing and turning—wasn’t exactly what we needed. I punched the off button and we suffered through the last ten minutes with more tension that we would’ve had, had I just left the stereo alone to begin with.
Eventually we reached Rusty’s shop. I knocked on the door, but didn’t get an answer, so I studied the decals displayed on the window. Several proclaimed Rusty a member of APT—the Alliance of Professional Tattoo artists. Another advertised Amnesty International, and the last said Rusty was a member of WXPN, the local public radio station. I turned the doorknob, and the door swung open. Rusty wasn’t in the front room.
“Hello?” I called.
/> His voice came from the back. “Be out in a minute.”
“So,” Nick said. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve never been in a tattoo parlor before. It’s not what I expected.”
“Nicer, right?”
“And cleaner.”
I looked around the room, wondering where to start with an explanation. The Harley paraphernalia? The flags? The magazines? The old license plates or “Easy Rider” poster?
“Well,” I finally said. “See all the art on the walls? That’s called flash. It’s mostly Rusty’s work, with some old generic favorites thrown in, that he’ll customize for you.”
“Don’t see yours. Your cow skull.”
“Nope. One-of-a-kind. I’m probably in one of those.” I pointed to a shelf unit, packed full of thick photo albums. “He takes a photo of every tattoo he does, so he has a record and people can check out his style. And look here.” I grabbed an album off the shelf labeled “Cover ups,” and flipped it open. “Rusty specializes in tattoos that fix something—a scar, birthmark, or even another tattoo.”
Nick glanced at my arm. “He could fix the one you messed up in the accident?”
“Sure. Could make it look pretty good, too.”
“Could Wolf?”
I nodded. “Yup. In fact, Mandy even mentioned that the other day.” My throat tightened, and I closed the album, sliding it back onto the shelf.
“What are those?” He pointed to a section of flash on the wall.
“Some of the old standards. Memorials.” Crosses. Angels. Doves.
“You didn’t get a standard for Howie.”
“It’s not that unusual. An ID band just fit me better than those others. Now if Bart got a memorial, he’d probably go with the religious theme. Depends who you are.”
“Explaining my business?” Rusty came out from the back, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He dropped the towel in a trash can and came forward, holding his hand out in a fist. I thumped it with my own, smiling. He hadn’t changed much, except for his head. He now had no hair, and his scalp was covered with a tattoo of the world, the continents a deep green surrounded by various blues, blacks, and mythical figures. A steel loop adorned his nose, making him resemble a bull more than I remembered, and each of his fingers was encircled by a ring. His arms looked mostly the same. An eagle, a dove, and a swallow on one arm, the other arm showcasing a broken heart and the face and flowing hair of a woman he’d once loved who’d been killed in a motorcycle accident. I assumed the extremely detailed oriental city still graced his chest and stomach. Compared to him, I felt positively naked.
