To Thine Own Self Be True (5 page)

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.

“Good to see you, man,” I said.

“And you.”

I thrust a thumb toward Nick, whose mouth had yet to shut at the vision Rusty presented.

“My friend, Nick. Never seen your kind of place before.” Or Rusty’s kind of person, at least up close.

Rusty nodded. “Come for a Christmas present?” he asked Nick. “Could do you up a nice little tattoo.”

Nick found a smile. “No. Thank you. Just came along for the ride.”

“Sure. But you’re missing out. Without a tattoo, you’re just a hairless ape.” Rusty turned back to me. “So what’s up? You here about Wolf and Mandy?”

“Yeah. I want to pick your brain about people they know. I also want you to take a look at this. Maybe finish it up.” I held out my wrist, showing him the aborted design Wolf had begun.

Rusty took a hold of my arm and turned it from side to side, checking out Wolf’s work. “Nice stuff, like always.” He let go. “I can’t, Stella. Not till we know. Finishing it up would feel almost like… Wolf will be back. He’ll finish it.”

I let my wrist drop. “Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

“How about the one on your arm?” Nick asked me.

Rusty’s forehead puckered. “What’s that?”

I slid off my coat and pulled up my shirt sleeve, exposing my mutilated quote.

“Yikes,” Rusty said. “What happened?”

“Bike accident this summer.”

“Skin grafts?”

“A couple.”

He studied it a bit longer. “I could fix that up. Take a little while, though. Have to think about it.”

I let my sleeve back down. “Don’t know if I’m up for that today. Rain check?”

“I need time, anyway. Hang on a sec.” He grabbed a digital camera from the shelf and I pulled my sleeve back up so he could get a couple of shots. He then took out a tape measure, held it to my arm, and jotted some notes on a yellow notepad. “I’ll make a drawing,” he said. “Get back to you when it’s ready. Now let me see my baby.” He set down the tape measure, put his hands on my shoulders, and swiveled me around, pushing my head forward. “Ah. I’ve always been proud of this one. Never done another like it.”

“It’s been a conversation starter,” I said. “Or ender, depending on the person.”

He let me turn back around. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about Wolf.”

I swallowed.

“And I wonder if we can’t help out the cops a little. Talk to some folks, see what we can find out.”

I was relieved. I’d been afraid he’d balk at helping the police. “Like who?”

“Got some people in mind. I could take you around.”

I thought of Billy. Wolf. Mandy lying in the snow. “Let’s do it.”

“All right.”

I hesitated.

“What?” he said.

I grimaced. “I’m thinking I should call the detective. See if she wants to tag along.”

Rusty frowned. “You do that, no one will talk. We might as well not go.”

I knew he was right.

“You can fill her in at the end of the day,” Rusty said. “Let her know if we found out anything.”

“What about me?” Nick said. “Will I be a problem?”

Rusty looked him over. “Nah. You’re obviously not a cop. We’ll vouch for you.”

Nick grinned at this. Being vouched for by me and a man who had more colors on him than Nick’s painting clothes.

“Let me call home first,” I said. “Make sure everything’s okay.”

Rusty pointed at the phone. “All yours. And while you’re talking, I’ll show your boyfriend here the tools of the trade.”

I opened my mouth to protest the boyfriend notion, but stopped when I saw Nick’s face. He thought it was funny, damn him.

I grabbed the phone off the cradle. Lucy and Tess were fine, and Lucy encouraged me to do what needed to be done. She’d take care of the farm. Man, I was lucky to have her.

I hung up and found Nick receiving a lecture from Rusty. One he’d probably given hundreds of times. He had Nick over at the work station, pointing out instruments.

“You want to insist on several things,” he said. “Single-use items—things the artist uses only on you then throws them away or sterilizes them. You watch him open the sterile packaging, so you know for sure. Needles, ink, tubes, gloves. You watch your artist pour a new ink supply into a new disposable container. A righteous artist will do all these things, and if yours doesn’t, go find a professional who will.”

He gestured around the room. “You make sure the surroundings are clean, as well as your tattoo artist, and you feel free to ask anything you want about his sterilization procedures and isolation techniques. And you watch him work. Observe someone else getting a tattoo and make sure you like what you see. None of this hiding in the back room stuff. If he’s not doing his work out in the open, you don’t want to know what goes on where you can’t see. If he’s a qualified professional, he’ll have no problem with you doing these things. In fact, he’ll be glad you’re taking so much responsibility. The artist himself is actually in more danger than the customer, with all the people he sees and the bodies he works on. The gloves are as much protection for him as for you.”

Nick took a breath to ask a question, but Rusty barreled on.

“This is, of course, after you’ve found someone who does the quality of art you’re looking for. After all, you’re gonna have this thing forever. Oh, and you’ll have to sign this waiver before a qualified artist will even touch you.” He held out a sheet of paper I recognized, a release that waived Rusty’s responsibility for things from infections following the work, to allergic reactions to the ink, to variations in color pigments. It even said that you realize a tattoo will be a permanent change to your appearance and you’re not under the influence of any mind-altering drugs.

“Change your mind, Nick?” I asked. “You ready to take the plunge?”

He smiled. “I was thinking of something small. Like a hammer.”

A hammer. For a developer. I forced a smile. “Would fit.”

Rusty, oblivious to the sudden tension, clapped his hands once, a sharp, jarring slap. “So, we ready to go?”

We went.