“He’ll be back,” Joel said confidently.
“How do you know?”
“He did this once before.”
This was the first I’d heard about that. “When?”
“Right before you took over. Flip told us about how he was selling the business to you, and Ace wasn’t thrilled with the idea of working for a woman.” Joel shot me a look. “I had no problems with it.”
I touched his arm. “Thanks. But what happened with Ace?”
“He left. Said he was never coming back. But he left his paintings. The day before you started, he was there again, never said a word, acted as though he’d never left.”
I mulled that a few seconds. “But this is different.”
“No. It’s not. He didn’t take his paintings.”
I didn’t see the significance of that, but Joel was satisfied, and he knew Ace better than I did. Maybe Ace would be back, after all.
We’d been closer to Murder Ink than I’d thought. Joel pulled into the alley behind the shop, the scent of the Chinese food from the take-out joint next door hanging in the air. He gave me a smile. “You’ll be okay here.”
“I have a client later.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. I’ll tell Bitsy everything.” He leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Everything’s going to be fine. Your brother’s going to catch the bad guy; you can get back to normal. You always do.”
He was right. I smiled back. “Thanks for everything,” I said, climbing out of the car. It felt good to stretch my legs. I was too tall for that car, and I couldn’t imagine how Joel felt, all three hundred pounds of him squished into that little Prius.
I didn’t see Jeff’s Pontiac, but the back door was slightly ajar, so maybe he parked in front today.
I waved at Joel and started to push the door open, but something was jamming it from the inside. I peered around the door and saw what was obstructing it.
Another pink flamingo.
They were breeding like rabbits.
Plastic rabbits.
This one wasn’t wearing a tiara, though, and I couldn’t see any red paint, so obviously whoever had left it did not feel as much animosity toward Jeff as she did toward me. Maybe she’d seen us together at the Golden Palace, before or after she disposed of Sherman Potter. Maybe she knew about our
Joel hadn’t pulled away yet, and I heard his door open.
“What’s wrong, Brett?” he asked when he got out.
I sighed. I felt like I was in a Fellini movie, where everything was in black and white except that pink flamingo.
Joel came over and stood next to me. I pointed around the door. He craned his neck so he could see, then straightened up again.
“Whoever’s doing this is nuttier than a fruitcake.”
He’d just described Sylvia to a T, but it wasn’t her. It was crazy Ann Wainwright, who had some sort of personal beef with me.
Where was Jeff? I wondered, pushing a little more forcefully on the door now so I could squeeze inside. I was halfway in when Joel asked, “You sure you want to go in there?”
He was right. What if whoever had put this flamingo here was still there, in the front of the shop or lying in wait in a corner or the bathroom or something? I came back out.
Time for Plan B. As I poked my head through the door opening, I shouted, “Jeff? Are you there?”
All I heard was the rattle of the old air conditioning unit.
“He’s not here,” I said, remembering that he had Sylvia with him when we left the Golden Palace. He was probably taking her home.
“Call him,” Joel said, handing me his phone.
I punched in his number, but there was no answer. I shrugged at Joel and said, “I probably should call Tim.”
I didn’t wait for Joel to agree; I just dialed. Tim picked up on the first ring.
“Someone called the Venetian and reported that you were a suspect in a murder,” he said without saying hello. “That’s why they detained you.” He snorted. “Rent-a-cops. They should know better than to listen to an anonymous caller.”
“So is it all straightened out?” My hopes rose. Maybe I could go back to work now; Joel and I wouldn’t have to be fugitives.
“Stay where you are,” he said. “I’ll call you when it’s okay. You’re at Murder Ink?”
“That’s right, but Jeff’s not here yet. I think he might be with Sylvia. I tried to call, but he didn’t answer.” I paused, then added, “But someone’s been here. Left Jeff a little present. A pink flamingo, like the one in our house.”
“You didn’t touch anything, right?”
“No. It was wedged in the door, so I think I might have crunched it a little when I pushed the door open, but I didn’t go in, I didn’t touch it.”
“I’ll send someone over there to dust for prints. We found a fingerprint at our house. Maybe whoever it is was as careless there.”
“Whose print was it?” More hopes.
But then he dashed them. “No one we know yet. But we’re still looking. Wait for the cops; wait for Jeff.” And he hung up.
I handed the phone back to Joel and shrugged. “He says to stay here.” As I looked around the alleyway, the Chinese food smells mixing with those in the Dumpster, I realized it was the last thing I wanted to do. I felt like a shark: If I stopped moving now, I might die. Well, that was an exaggeration, but you get what I mean. I needed something to do, something that made me think I was being helpful. Sure, Tim would think otherwise, but he wasn’t here.
Neither was Jeff.
Although as we turned, a familiar orange car swung into the alley. He slammed on the brakes, parking right behind Joel’s Prius. Jeff got out of the Pontiac with a frown.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
I quickly told him about being detained at the Venetian, but adding the stuff Tim had said about how someone called saying I was wanted for murder, then went on to include how Joel had helped me escape. I must have been going on a little too long, because Jeff held up his hand to interrupt.
“Get to the point, Kavanaugh. Why are you outside my shop?” He noticed the door was open, and he went over to it, pushing against that pink flamingo, just like I had. “What the hell is that?” he asked, spotting it.
“Tim said I should come over here,” I said, “but I found that flamingo in your door. You weren’t here. He’s sending someone over to take fingerprints.”
Jeff was shaking his head, running a hand through his buzz cut, the tattoos on his arm flexing with each movement. Joel and I exchanged a look, but neither of us said anything. Finally, Jeff looked at me.
“You’re full of trouble, you know that, Kavanaugh?”
“I thought you liked that about me,” I quipped before I could stop myself.
A smile spread across his face. “And you are way too sensitive.” He paused. “I guess the cops aren’t exactly treating a plastic flamingo like an emergency.”
“It’s not like it’s going to walk away,” Joel piped up.
Somehow that struck me as really funny. Guess you had to be there. But within seconds, the three of us were laughing so hard it hurt. In retrospect, though, it wasn’t so much funny as it was a chance to let off some
