The Missing Ink (16 page)

“His fingerprints are all over that suite, but it’s not a surprise, since he was staying there.” Tim paused. “We got the shirt. We’re testing the stains. Thanks for the tip.”

I was about to tell him what I’d learned on the Internet about Chase and Kelly and Elise, but his expression changed slightly, and I knew something was on his mind.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Time of death. Matt Powell wasn’t killed today.”

“You’re kidding. When was he killed?”

“Medical examiner thinks maybe sometime yesterday.”

“Chip Manning stayed in that room with a dead guy?”

“He was moved. We found carpet fibers from the room all over his body.”

“So he was dragged through the suite and stuck in the tub?” I made a face. “That’s really sick.” I had another thought. “But how could someone get a body into the hotel without the cameras picking up on it?”

Tim smiled at me as if I were a simpleton. “Matt Powell had a smaller, much smaller, room on another floor.”

I got it now. “So he was killed there and put in Chip’s room? Was it to implicate Chip?” My thoughts were moving faster than a hamster on a wheel. “But even if he was moved, the cameras would’ve filmed it, right?”

Tim’s expression told me that he was one step ahead of me, but he had no intention of sharing.

I had another thought. Once I started, there was no stopping me. “Hey, Chip was at my shop yesterday morning. He said Matt was waiting for him in the food court.”

Tim’s interest was piqued. “Really? Did you see him?”

I remembered how Joel and I had tried to catch up with Chip but lost him. “No. Do you think he was setting up an alibi?” I sounded like I really knew what I was talking about. Hey, maybe that Starsky and Hutch crack Jeff Coleman had made wasn’t so far off the mark.

Tim didn’t answer. But I was on a roll.

“Do you think Chip killed his driver because his driver was Elise’s lover?”

Tim pursed his lips and shook his head. “Can’t speculate.”

I had another thought. “You know Kelly Masters’s brother’s name is Matthew, right? Maybe he’s got something to do with this.”

Tim frowned. “How do you know him?”

“I’ve seen him a couple of times. He showed up outside my shop the other day, and he was in the casino at Versailles when I left.”

“Is he bothering you?”

“He’s sort of a creepy guy. I don’t like the idea of running into him. I get a bad vibe from him.”

“But has he done anything? Approached you?” Tim’s tone was laced with worry, but as I thought about his questions, I realized Matthew hadn’t attempted to talk to me or follow me. Not that I knew. He’d just been
there
. And I hadn’t been able to see the driver of that truck. Maybe it wasn’t him at all. Maybe it was just a guy in a truck who just happened to be going my way. Maybe in my paranoia I’d jumped to conclusions.

I shook my head.

“If he does bother you, you should let me know.”

I nodded. “Okay. But you know, I’m not sure Simon Chase is entirely innocent in all this,” I said.

Tim made a face at me. “And why is that?”

“I don’t know if you know this, but Simon Chase dated both Kelly Masters and Elise Lyon a couple of years back.”

Silence, then, “Yeah, we know that.”

“Really?”

“Why do you sound surprised? If you know it, why shouldn’t we? Anyway, Chase told us.”

“And you let him go?”

Tim sighed. “We don’t have any evidence to hold him, Brett. I’m going to bed. I’m beat.” He disappeared into his room, leaving me to clean up my dishes and shut the TV off before heading to bed myself, my head swirling with everything that had happened the last couple days.

Tim was already gone when I got up in the morning. I opted to get a muffin and a coffee in the mall rather than eat breakfast at home.

Bitsy had opened. Sometimes I wondered if she ever got any sleep.

“So, tell me about yesterday,” she said. “The news said—”

“The news is a little skewed,” I said.

I was still telling her about it fifteen minutes later, when Joel and Ace came in. Joel carried a box of doughnuts and stuck it on the light table, grabbing a glazed one.

“Figured we’d need some sugar today,” he said, although Bitsy and I shared a look that told me she was thinking the same thing I was: Joel never needed an excuse to eat doughnuts.

Ace nibbled on a cinnamon doughnut as I started my story over for them. Joel didn’t say anything about the Dakota and me calling him. I was glad about that, since I’d pretty much decided it had meant nothing after all.

Bitsy wandered off into the front of the shop, because she didn’t need to hear the story again, and she picked up the phone when it rang. She stuck her head in the doorway, her grin wide, and said, “It’s an Englishman for you, Brett.”

I caught my breath. I only knew one Englishman.

“Hello?” I asked when I picked up the receiver.

“Miss Kavanaugh?”

My back was so stiff with tension I thought that if I moved it would snap in two. “Yes?”

“This is Simon Chase. I hope you don’t mind my calling you at work, but I didn’t have any other numbers for you.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” My voice didn’t sound like me. I could hear a distinct affected English accent. I was turning into Madonna.

“I was wondering if you’d be able to have lunch today, here at Versailles, with me.”

My brain zipped through a million reasons why not, but I heard myself saying, “I’d love to.”

What was wrong with me?

“Would one o’clock be good? I’ll make a reservation at Giverny.”

I was confused. Giverny?

He sensed my hesitation and chuckled. “Of course, Giverny means more to you than just a restaurant.”

Monet’s home. The site of the garden that decorated my arm.

“You know, by calling your restaurant Giverny, you’re again violating the century that Versailles was famous for.” I just couldn’t help myself.

“I was waiting to see if you’d pick up on that, and I would’ve been surprised if you didn’t.” His tone was flirty, playful. I wished I knew whether it was sincere. The worst thing was, I didn’t really care.

I told myself I could ask him some questions at lunch; that could justify my desire to see him again regardless of my newfound suspicions about him.

“I’ll meet you at the restaurant,” I said.

“Cheers.” And he hung up.

I stared at the phone. Bitsy took it out of my hand.

“I take it you have a date.”

I nodded.

“I saw him on the news. He’s a good-looking guy.”

I nodded.

“Where is he taking you? And you can’t just nod this time.”

“Giverny, the restaurant at Versailles.”

“Get the filet,” Joel said from behind me. “They do something with a horseradish sauce that’s to die for.”

“I’ll consider it,” I said, not sure that horseradish went with a first date.

I mentally slapped myself. First date? With a playboy who dated a dead woman who was connected with a missing woman and a dead body?

Ace had another doughnut in one hand and a cell phone banging out Springsteen’s “Born to Run” in the other. He handed the phone to me, and I recognized it as mine.

Tim’s number was displayed.

“Hey, Tim,” I said, turning to go back into the now deserted staff room. “What’s up?”

“I need you to put out some feelers about where Jeff Coleman might be,” he said. “We really need to find him.”

“Why the urgency?”

“We just got the autopsy reports back on Kelly Masters.” He paused. “She was four months pregnant.”

Chapter 27

“What do you think that has to do with Jeff? I mean, they’ve been divorced a while.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. He could be the father, or someone else could be. Maybe he killed her in a jealous rage.”

Even though Jeff Coleman was smarmy, I doubted he’d kill his ex-wife, knowing she was pregnant with another man’s child. “What about Simon Chase? Maybe it’s his baby.”

“Listen, Brett, can you just let me do my job? If you hear anything about Coleman, I need to know right away.” And he hung up.

It was those fingerprints on the gun again. Tim had a good reason to think it was Jeff. Physical evidence usually doesn’t lie. But I couldn’t shake my gut feeling that Chase might really be involved with all this. Maybe it
was
his baby. Maybe Kelly was in Vegas to see him. I remembered how Sylvia said Kelly couldn’t get pregnant. But sometimes miracles happened, didn’t they? There were stories like that all the time.

Joel was still eating doughnuts.

“If you hear anything from anyone about where Jeff Coleman might be, can you let me know?” I asked him.

Joel shrugged, and I thought that was the end of it. I turned as my next client came in, a woman who’d just turned forty who wanted a butterfly on her shoulder. I love midlife crises. They’re good for business.

But Joel stopped me, touching my shoulder and baptizing me with a little doughnut dust.

“I heard that Jeff Coleman’s holed up outside town at a Super 8.” He rattled off the address.

“Who’d you hear that from?”

He smiled, creating dimples in his cheeks. “Everyone’s talking about how the cops are looking for him.”

I could go out there after I had lunch with Chase. Which meant that I’d have to take my car again. That valet wouldn’t be happy to see me, but maybe he wasn’t working today.

“You can’t go alone.” Joel’s dimples had disappeared. “I’m going with you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but I’m going with you.”

“I’m seeing Chase first.”

“And I’ll pick you up at Versailles at two. That should give you enough time for lunch.”

I wanted to take my car, but Joel put a finger over my lips before I could say anything.

“You can walk over to Versailles, save some gas, and I’ll pick you up at two. End of conversation. You were followed yesterday; someone’s watching you, and I don’t want you to go alone. What if Coleman’s behind all this?”

I’d dismissed my fears when I talked to Tim, but Joel had a point, so I nodded. Chase could be behind this, too. I wasn’t ready to let my friends know about my suspicions. “Okay, fine. I’ll meet you at two in the lobby.”

The butterfly didn’t take me too long, only about an hour. It left me time to contemplate my outfit. I couldn’t go in the tank top and jersey skirt I was wearing. It was way too casual. I’d left my white trousers and purple silk top here yesterday, along with the fabulous red shoes. But walking in those shoes wasn’t a good idea. I tried on the slacks with my Tevas, and the pants dragged a little on the ground, but I’d have to live with it. I dumped the red heels into my messenger bag.

Joel “tsk-tsked” when I emerged, frowning at the bag.

“It’s all I’ve got,” I said, “and I don’t have time to shop.”

He conceded, but it was difficult for him.

I indicated my skirt and tank on the table. “Bring those with you, okay? I want to be comfortable when we go see Jeff.”

It was hot outside, and the silk top was sticking to my chest. The dragon looked like it was crying, but it was just tears of sweat. I was afraid my trousers would have sweat marks all over them, and in unfortunate places. By the time I reached Versailles, my makeup had slid off for sure, making me feel as if I looked like one of those melting faces at the end of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.

It’s a dry heat.

Right.

I didn’t go straight to the restaurant when I got to Versailles. Jarred by the mirrors and my reflection, I found the ladies’ room tucked in a little corner just past the front desk around the corner from the casino.

A very busty young woman with a tall wig of white hair piled on top of her head was applying a thick layer of red lipstick. Her face had been powdered almost as white as the wig. She grinned at me when I walked in.

“Nice tat,” she said, lifting her short skirt—she must be one of those cocktail waitresses—and showing off Sylvester the cat and Tweety Bird on the side of her thigh.

I’d admonished Tim for thinking that there was some sort of tattoo “club,” but anyone with ink invariably noticed everyone who shared their penchant for the needle.

I ducked into one of the stalls—not your typical restroom stall, either, but one with a white-paneled door and gilt knob. The toilet was European, with a little golden bulb you had to pull up on in order to flush. I was surprised there wasn’t a bidet.

The cocktail waitress was still primping when I emerged and surveyed my face in the mirror. It
had
melted a bit, and I rummaged in my bag, pulling out a small Baggie with some lip gel, blush, foundation, and mascara. My hand caught on the red patent-leather pumps, and I dropped them on the floor.

“Great shoes,” the waitress said, “but your face is a mess.”

Nothing like being blunt.

“Let me help.” She frowned at my Baggie, then washed my face with a wet, cold towel—a real one, not paper—pulling the remains of my makeup off. “Have to start over, sweetheart.”

Within seconds, she’d put foundation on, then a little blush. She took my mascara wand and expertly created lashes where there had been none. She squirted some hair gel from her own bag and ran it through her fingers and then through my hair, making it spiky. It matched the tats and the rows of silver earrings in my ears, but not the purple silk blouse.

“I feel like two people,” I said, mostly to myself.

She laughed. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” I said, holding out my hand. “Brett Kavanaugh.”

“Robbin Seipold.”

I took one of my business cards out of my bag and handed it to her. “Robbin, come into the shop and your next tat’s on me. For making me look great for my date.”