The Missing Ink

The people who wandered in here by mistake were relieved they could buy something other than a tat.

Generally, we were by appointment only, no walk-ins, and we got a lot of referrals from the hotel concierges.

“Bitsy says that missing woman was here.” Ace ran his hands through his abundantly thick dark hair, which fell gracefully just above his shoulders. It was a gesture meant to draw attention to himself; Ace was all about attention. He had those chiseled good looks that indicated possible plastic surgery-because what man could be so striking without it?-and clear blue eyes that seemed somehow reflective, like a pool. Even his tats were perfectly aligned on either arm, dipping ever so slightly onto the backs of his hands into fleurs-de-lis. He was a true artiste, lamenting his plight as a tattooist, unable to pursue his art as he wished, frustrated-but not enough to cut off an ear for anyone.

It was enough to make us all roll our eyes in unison.

“Tim needs to talk to you,” I told Bitsy.

The stool still didn’t take her to eye level with me, but it was close. I noticed she had on a new pair of khaki trousers and a white eyelet blouse. Bitsy was rather conservative in her style, wearing no makeup except for a little mascara, but she didn’t really need any. She had flawless skin any woman would kill for. She was the only one in the shop without ink. I’d asked her once why she didn’t have a tat, and she said she just didn’t want one. I’m not into peer pressure, so I let it alone.

“He called. He should be here soon.”

I knew he was doing his job, but wasn’t it enough that he’d already told me he’d be by? Like he didn’t trust that I’d relay his message to Bitsy. Sometimes he still treated me like his little sister. If the rent weren’t so good, I’d move out and get my own place.

I put my bag in the staff room. I’d left a design only partly done on the light table the night before. An older woman wanted “something special” to cover her mastectomy scar, something that indicated emotional growth and physical strength. I’d started drawing an oak tree, delicate leaves at the ends of thin branches that gradually grew thicker into the trunk and ended in a mass of roots.

I took the pencil and sketched it out further, adding more details. When I was in school at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, I’d dreamed of going to Paris and putting up an easel next to the Seine, painting on a stiff white canvas.

Instead, my canvas was alive, soft and moving, and my brush had turned into a machine with a needle on the end of it.

The first time I’d touched that needle to my own skin, I knew this was what I wanted to do.

My mother, who moved with my father to a retirement community in Port St. Lucie, Florida, right after I left for Vegas, said a Hail Mary for me every day.

I heard some sort of commotion out in the front of the shop. I pushed the sketch aside, put my pencil down, and got up. As I moved toward the door, I heard Bitsy arguing with a man.

“She’s busy. I can help you,” Bitsy said.

“I want to talk to the owner!”

For a second, I froze, wondering if it was the big tattooed guy who’d been watching me. I shrugged off the apprehension, telling myself that if it were, I’d at least know what he wanted now. Still, I tentatively pushed the door open.

The man Bitsy was arguing with didn’t have one tat. At least none that I could see. He was in his late twenties, early thirties maybe, as clean-cut as he could be, with a short, military-like haircut, nicely pressed button-down shirt, and jeans that looked like they’d been ironed.

I took another look at his face.

He was the spitting image of his father.

It was Chip Manning, jilted groom.

Chapter 6

He saw me peeking out the staff room door, and within two strides he was standing in front of me. I had no choice but to stand tall and face him.

“Are you the owner?”

I nodded.

He held out his hand. “I’m Chip Manning.”

I took it, noting that his grip was a little slack. “Brett Kavanaugh. What can I help you with?”

“I understand you saw Elise. Elise Lyon. My fiancee.” His expression told me he expected something from me, but I wasn’t sure just what.

“She didn’t say much,” I tried.

“But you saw her.” His grief was etched across his face. “What did she say? How did she act?”

He obviously cared for the girl. Maybe she had been kidnapped. Or maybe she just left him because he smothered her.

Ace had stopped hanging his paintings and was blatantly listening to the conversation. Joel hovered near the front desk, fingering the orchid that didn’t look very healthy. I made a mental note to tell Bitsy to get us a new one.

“She was fine,” I said. I didn’t want to tell him about Matthew. “How did you find out about us? That she came in here? Only the police know.”

Chip gazed at me. “My father knows a lot of people in the police department.”

I didn’t doubt that. He probably got a call last night after Tim relayed the news that I’d seen Kelly/Elise. “Does he know you’re here?”

He got a deer-in-the-headlights look about him. “No. He wanted me to stay out of it; he’d take care of it.”

“So you sneaked out to come talk to us yourself?”

“Of course not.” He became defiant. “I’ve got my driver.”

His driver. Might have known. Bitsy rolled her eyes at me.

Chip noticed.

“He’s my best friend,” he said.

Sadly, that was probably true. Sounded like his father kept him on a pretty short leash. But I gave him credit for making an effort to do something on his own.

“Did she say why she was here?” Chip looked from me to Bitsy to Joel to Ace.

“She wanted a tattoo,” Bitsy said, her tone indicating that it was a stupid question. It was a tattoo shop.

Chip shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyes landing on me again after a second of assessing Bitsy. It was as if he’d just noticed she was a little person, and he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with that.

“Why?” he asked me.

“Why what?” I could play stupid. And I didn’t like it that he’d glossed over Bitsy so easily.

“Didn’t she say why she wanted the tattoo? I mean, it wasn’t exactly something I thought Elise would ever do. She wasn’t like that.” He didn’t seem to realize that he was talking to people who were “like that.”

He also didn’t think Elise would leave him at the altar, either, but who was I to mention it?

“We don’t always know if there’s a specific reason a person wants a tattoo,” I said slowly, as if explaining something to a toddler. “It’s not our place to ask. Sometimes someone will volunteer the information, sometimes not.”

“So she didn’t say?”

“She said she wanted to surprise her fiance on her wedding night.” Bitsy had a habit of just blurting things out.

Chip seemed startled that she spoke again, but I gave him extra credit when he directed his next question to her. “Why would she come to Vegas, then, for a tattoo? She could’ve gotten one at home.”

It was a rhetorical question, one that didn’t need an answer, but Bitsy could not be stopped.

“Maybe she just wanted one last fling before getting married,” she suggested.