Trouble Maker: A MacKenzie Family Novel (The MacKenzie Family) (21 page)

“I still don’t understand how you could recognize the tattoo,” I said to Scarlet. “It’s so wrinkled and distorted it’s nearly impossible to make out.”

“Some things you don’t forget,” she said sagely. “The Savannah bank robbery of ‘45 and a Latin lover named Mario are the two things that stick with me the most. Whew, was your Uncle Stan steamed about Mario. But once I explained he was Spanish Royalty and it was an honor to be asked to sleep with him, Stan calmed right down.” She looked confused for a minute and slapped her hand on top of her head to keep her hat from blowing away. “May he rest in peace.”

Rosemarie and I stared at Scarlet with horrified fascination, and I did a half-assed sign of the cross along with Rosemarie and Scarlet at the mention of Uncle Stanley’s untimely demise. I was mostly Methodist, so I was never really sure if I was crossing myself correctly, but no one had made devil horn signs at me or doused me with holy water, so I figured I was in the clear.

We made our way back to the stairs that led down to the beach and I dug my flip-flops out of the bag so the sand wouldn’t burn my feet. I looked like an idiot wearing nothing but a camera and flip-flops, but to those at the Hidden Sunrise Naturist Community, I looked like I belonged.

We spread our towels out on the loungers, adjusted the umbrellas so we were protected from direct sunlight, and got comfortable. I set the camera on the little table next to the loungers and pointed it at Elmer, who seemed to be snoozing peacefully on the lounger a few feet away.

The problem with the camera was that it made noise when pictures were taken, and I didn’t know how sound of a sleeper Elmer was. So I used my second best option and pulled out my iPhone.

The beach waiter came up and took our drink orders, and I sighed, frustrated, because I couldn’t get a clear shot of the tattoo on his arm with my phone. I had to have the tattoo. It was the only documented proof the FBI had of The Romeo Bandit, aka, Elmer Hughes.

I watched Elmer for ten more minutes and contemplated my choices while I sipped on a Sex on the Beach. Rosemarie was reading a book two loungers over, and Aunt Scarlet had gotten bored and was building a sandcastle, wearing nothing but a big hat and a lot of sand she was probably going to regret getting up close and personal with later.

“Don’t forget the sunscreen, Aunt Scarlet,” I called out a little too loud, watching Elmer closely to see if he stirred. Nope. He was out for the count. It was now or never.

I took another fortifying sip of my drink and grabbed the camera. I put the camera strap around my neck and got on all fours in the hot sand. I might have muttered an expletive or two, having not thought through the fact that it would feel like dipping my hands and knees in molten glass.

I tried not to think about what I looked like from behind. And then I did think about it and grabbed the towel off my lounger, draping it across my backside like a tablecloth. I slowly crawled on hands and knees until I was inches away from Elmer Hughes.

My heart was pounding in my chest and I was covered with sweat and sand, neither of my favorite things. I realized I had a slight buzz and the Xanax must have worn off because I was feeling a whole lot of anxiety all of a sudden.

Elmer let out a soft snore and I squeaked. His arm was limp and his hands were gnarled with age. He wore a pinky ring with a small ruby in the center. The tattoo was wrinkled and the ink had faded over the years, but now that I was up close, I could see it clearly. A thorny vine and rosary beads were twined around a naked woman that had more curves than Kim Kardashian. The vine and the rosary beads ended at the top of his hand where the rose had started to bloom.

I could see how in its heyday the tattoo might have been an interesting conversation piece, but the inked woman was now wizened with age and arm hair, and it looked vaguely as if she were shooting the rosary out of her vagina. But Aunt Scarlet had recognized it, and that was all that mattered.

I brought the camera up and took a couple of quick shots, and then I bit my lip as I debated whether or not to stretch his skin out a little and get a more complete picture. I finally decided that was the alcohol talking and probably not the best decision, and then I realized the alcohol had been giving me direction through this whole debacle because what I was doing definitely wasn’t using my best judgment.

I found this out the hard way when I turned to crawl back to my own lounger and my towel got stuck under my knee, pulling it completely off and leaving me bare-assed with my lady bits flapping in the breeze.

“Yikes,” a male voice said behind me.

I scrambled to cover my rear with the towel and turned my head in time to catch Elmer Hughes horrified stare.

“Jesus God,” he wheezed, clutching his chest. “I thought I was having a flashback from the seventies. Those things looked a lot different then. Nothing like 70’s bush. You’ve got a nice landscaper.”

I turned fifty shades of red and scrambled to make sure I was completely covered with the towel. And then I noticed his gaze had shifted to the camera in my hand.

“I can explain,” I said.

On behalf of 1001 Dark Nights,

Liz Berry and M.J. Rose would like to thank ~

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Jillian Stein

InkSlinger PR

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