“Georgie and I went to a tattoo shop about nine months ago in Edison,” I say. “And if I remember right, Macy was with us. She scored a date with the bouncer, or whoever that beefy man was guarding the door. And neither of us got a tattoo.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to have a good time.” She gives a little wink my way. “If that were me, I would have gotten a bright blue butterfly right on my keister.” Her forefinger flies through the air like a bee until it lands over her pink kaftan-covered bottom with a sizzle.
“I know how to have a good time.” Juni is quick to alert us to her fun-loving status. “I’ve scored a date or two with a bouncer myself.”
“And that’s exactly how you met Spike,” I point out. It’s true. Juni met Spike while we were undercover at the Pawn King. He took her on a cruise and everything, but apparently he doesn’t make enough to keep her in steaks, so things are on the rocks.
“Ohh.” Juni bucks as if I shot her. “Speaking of Spike, he’s coming by the cove tonight and we’re doing s’mores by a bonfire.”
“Aww,” I coo. “That sounds perfectly romantic.”
She ticks her head. “Nine times out of ten, romantic is a cover for ain’t got two sweet nickels to rub together so I’m gonna rub you for free. If I wanted a man who was living paycheck to paycheck, I’d still be seeing my probation officer.”
Before I can think of a comeback, Georgie lets out a menacing howl while slapping at her chest.
“Oh my God, Georgie!” I howl right back as I try to grab her. “Are you having a heart attack?”
“Yes, I’m having a heart attack,” she shouts. “The needlepoint shop is a tattoo parlor!” She points behind me, and I spin on my heels.
Sure enough, there’s a giant sign in the shape of a needle, and written across it are the words Needlepoint Tattoos.
“I sure hope butterflies are free,” Georgie shouts gleefully as she makes a run for the unsuspecting establishment. “Because I’m pinning one to my tiny hiney.”
Juni snorts, but neither of us dares say a thing about Georgie’s questionable tiny hiney.
A bell chimes as we step into the well air-conditioned shop and soak in the shiplap walls decorated with framed pictures of their craftsmanship etched onto bums and boobs alike displayed for all to see.
Good grief.
In fact, there’s a picture of something muscular with a tattoo of a peacock on it, and I can’t for the life of me identify what part of the human anatomy it’s attached to.
There’s a wide stainless steel counter and behind it is a pricing chart, a stern warning to wimps, and about a million little pictures of prospective artwork one can have etched into their flesh forever. The sound of rock music filters through the speakers and the slight scent of Chinese food lingers in the air.
“Can I help you?” a female voice chirps from my left, and no sooner do I turn that way than I gasp so hard you’d think the devil himself had just popped up. It’s not that far from the truth.
Before I answer or acknowledge the malfeasance before me, Georgie barrels forward as if she’s about to attack and demands a tat on her patoot—her words, not mine—and before we know it, a blonde named Veronica hauls both her and Juni to the back.
I step forward with caution. Before me sits Stormy Weston, the dark-haired hippie, in a rainbow striped dress with a hoop earring in her left nostril. But it’s not Stormy that had me gasping; it’s the woman seated across from her currently getting what looks to be a henna tattoo from the hippie in question.
“You want one, too?” Stormy asks me with a marked innocence. “I’ll be done in a minute with this one. It’s fifty bucks for both hands.”
A dark smile curls at my lips. “I would love one.”
I quickly plant myself in the seat right next to the woman who has stolen more of my peace than a bad haircut could ever hope to do.
“Camila,” I say her name without an ounce of inflection. “What a surprise.”
The buxom brunette huffs my way, “I’m not surprised.” She rolls her eyes to Stormy. “This is the woman I was telling you about.”
Stormy’s mouth rounds out. “Oh my gosh, yes.” She clucks her tongue. “Ms. Ryder was trying to, like, describe you and stuff, but I couldn’t get a read on it. I guess I was too focused on the fact you had blood on your hands that night. You didn’t really kill Wyatt, did you?” Of course, I know better, but it’s prudent to ask. And probably prudent to hype up the bubble-headed teenager in me, too. I don’t want either of these women to know what I’m capable of.
My mouth falls open. Could Stormy be the killer?
I tip my head to the side and examine her for a moment. That unkempt hair, those large glassy eyes that give off the cue her brain has been chemically altered. Honestly, I wouldn’t have pegged her for the crime, but here we are.
That was an admission of something, but homicide? Hopefully, I’m about to find out.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t kill him. Did you?” I give a playful shrug, and Camila gags as if I shoved one of those long brushes Stormy is using down her throat.
“Excuse Bizzy,” Camila says. “She’s a bit of a busybody. Her name basically serves as a warning.”
Stormy chortles as she sets Camila’s hands underneath a small fan and rolls her stool my way and begins to prep me.
“I’m no killer.” She winks directly at me when she says it. “And I’m no tattoo artist either. My boyfriend Dax is the guy you want to see if you’re looking
