Driven to Ink (15 page)

As I hadn’t when I saw her at Jeff’s.

Joel was a few sentences behind. “Colin Bixby? As in
the
Colin Bixby?”

I sighed. “Yes, Joel, Colin Bixby.”

“Is he still hot?”

Before I could answer, Bitsy said, “He looks better than I remember. What do you think, Brett?”

I thought again about Colin Bixby and his clear green eyes and almost-punk look. Give him some guyliner and an eyebrow piercing, and there’s no telling what I’d do.

“He’s still okay,” I said, trying to sound casual.

Joel laughed. “What about this Dean Martin impersonator? Who rates better?”

“I don’t think rating them is fair,” I started, but Bitsy interrupted.

“The good doctor, hands down. I mean, at least he has a steady job, a good income. This Will Parker—Well, Brett, I’m sorry, but he’s another actor, and you’ve already had one of those, and see how that turned out.”

Bitsy didn’t have to remind me about Paul Fogarty, my onetime fiancé, an actor on Broadway in Manhattan, whose whole life was consumed by his work. So much so that he felt compelled to belittle my career. There had been enough time between then and now for me to do some self-analysis, and I’d realized Paul’s insecurities. But it wasn’t enough for me to try to contact him after fleeing across the country to shed his abuse.

However, Bitsy’s words brought out the contrarian in me.

“At least Will Parker doesn’t live down the hall from his mother,” I said haughtily.

“How do you know that? Have you Googled him? Have you been to his house? Maybe he lives
with
his mother.”

Bitsy’s words rang true. I had no clue about anything regarding Will Parker except his job and that he was sexy. And he had a blue car.

“Touché.”

“Hungry, anyone?” Joel looked hopefully from me to Bitsy.

Bitsy shook her head. “Ace has a client coming in any moment, and you two”—she looked in the appointment book—“have clients in about half an hour.”

Joel grinned at me. “Just enough time to pick up Johnny Rockets burgers.”

I was getting really tired of burgers.

Walking past the pricey high-end shops away from the canal, I stopped in front of one window, admiring a floppy straw hat I could totally see myself wearing if I ever went back to the Jersey Shore for a vacation. I’d never be caught dead in it here.

“Not you,” Joel said flatly, noticing the hat.

“Great beach hat,” I said.

“Not you,” he said again. “You’re not a hat person.”

“How do you know? Have you ever seen me in a hat?”

He studied my face and head for a second, then grinned. “Have you ever once worn a hat so I could find out?” he asked, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the store.

It was full of hats. Everywhere. And Joel started plopping them on my head one by one and announcing, “No, no, no,” for each.

I personally liked a small black one that perched on the back of my head, with a netting over my forehead and eyes, like they wore in the forties and fifties. For a second, Joel was starting to agree but then pulled it off my head and said, “You look like a gangster’s moll.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“We’re trying to destroy the Mob stereotype here in Vegas.”

“We?”

“Me and Steve Wynn.”

“Oh, and you’re best buddies, are you?”

He chuckled and put the black hat back on its mannequin head. “I’ve seen him.”

“From a distance.”

“In the men’s room.”

“No.” I knew what he was saying.

“Close enough to touch him,” he added.

We fell laughing out of the store’s doorway, back into the mall. It was nice to think of something other than dead people and rats and blue cars for a little while.

“I worked up an appetite,” Joel said.

“I can’t have another burger. I’ll start mooing,” I said. “I’m sorry, Joel, but I need Chinese or even a hot dog.”

The minute I said Chinese, he started salivating. “Noodles?” he said.

“Opposite direction,” I said.

We turned and almost ran back toward the Shoppes at the Palazzo, which were announced overhead on a sign at the end of the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes’s canal.

We were circling around the walkway, about parallel with the magnificent yet incredibly wasteful waterfall, when I thought I saw someone familiar up ahead.

I grabbed Joel’s arm and yanked him over to the edge of the walkway so I’d have a better view of the short elderly woman with a large cheetah-print tote bag hung over her shoulder. Her white hair was pulled up into something that looked like diamonds. A tiara, maybe. I was too far away to see exactly what it was.

But I wasn’t too far away to see the tattoos.

“That looks like Sylvia Coleman,” Joel said loudly.

The woman turned. And waved.

It
was
Sylvia Coleman.

I
was so stunned to see her that I couldn’t speak for a few minutes. She scurried over to us, her smile wide.

“Fancy meeting you here!” she exclaimed.

“My shop is just down there,” I said, pointing behind us.

“Oh, that’s right, dear.” She waved her hand through the air absently. “This place confuses me. All these stores and that silly river. What’s a river doing in the middle of a mall anyway?”

I totally agreed with her. But I didn’t have time to think about that. I wanted to know where she’d been and how she’d ended up here, now. I opened my mouth to ask, but she spoke first.

“I’m looking for a bathroom.”

I knew there was a ladies’ room downstairs and behind the escalator, near the Blue Man Group Theatre. It was tucked away in a corner that was fairly isolated when the Blue Man Group wasn’t performing, and there I’d be able to question her without anyone listening in. “I can take you,” I said, nodding at Joel. “Can you go get some take-out? I’ll meet you back at the shop.”

Joel didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay and find out what was up with Sylvia, too, but he couldn’t come to the ladies’ room with us, so he nodded reluctantly. “Sure. What do you want?”

“Anything but beef,” I said.

“He’s a big one,” Sylvia said as we watched Joel lumber away. “But it looks like he’s losing some weight.”

“He is,” I said.

Sylvia tucked her hand into the crook of my arm. Her cheetah-print bag hung on her other shoulder. “Now, dear, I really do need that toilet.”

Not wanting any sort of accident, I whisked her around and down the escalator, a little bit of the waterfall spray hitting our faces.

“That feels good,” Sylvia said, “but rather unnatural in a desert, don’t you think?”

Exactly.

“Cat got your tongue?” she asked.

“Where have you been? Jeff’s been all over looking for you. Your car was found at the Grand Canyon. We’ve been worried sick.” Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I hadn’t meant to say anything until we were alone.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, threw a hand up in the air and said, “Oh, that. That car finally broke down. I told Bernie we should’ve taken the Gremlin.”

“But how—”

“We hitched a ride.”

“Hitched?”

She stuck out her thumb. “You know. You’re not that young, are you? Hitching was the only way to travel once upon a time.”

And I could see her, too, throwing her thumb into the wind and seeing where it could get her.

“But how—”

“We got a ride on a bus. A bus full of old people. Can you imagine?” Sylvia chuckled. “They felt sorry for us. We took their tour to Sedona. We paid them,” she added quickly, as if she would be accused of being a moocher.

“So you’ve been in Sedona this whole time?”

“That’s right, dear.”

“And what are you doing here?”

She looked puzzled for a second, as if she didn’t quite know. Then, “We got here last night. This was the last stop on the tour. Since we paid, we got a room, like everyone else. Figured we might as well take advantage. Never stayed in one of these fancy-schmancy places before. Do you know how many pillows you get on the bed here? Unbelievable.”

Yes, it was unbelievable. “You’ve been in town since last night?” I asked. “Why didn’t you let Jeff know?”

Sylvia looked at me quizzically. “Am I supposed to check in with my son on my honeymoon?”

“No, I guess not,” I said. “How long do you have your room here?”

“Two nights. I’m starting to get a little antsy to get home, though. There are just so many pillows I can take after a while.”

She was dead serious. And she wasn’t done yet.

“Bernie did go out earlier to pick up the Gremlin, but he said something was wrong with it, so he ended up renting a car instead. Until we get the Buick back.”

I wasn’t surprised something was “wrong” with the Gremlin. The almost-forty-year-old car shouldn’t have even been on the road.

“Where’s Bernie now?” I asked.

“Bernie likes to gamble. A little, not a lot. He’s in the casino, trying his hand at the tables. But me—Well, I need that toilet.”

I didn’t want to point out that there were restrooms in the casino. How she ended up wandering around the Palazzo shops was a mystery. But then again, much about Sylvia didn’t make sense.

We had walked around the waterfall, and I led Sylvia to the ladies’ room. As I suspected, there was no one else there.

She unhooked herself from my arm and went into one of the stalls. I looked in the mirror and ran a hand through my short hair, tucking it back behind my ears and peering more closely at my face. I’d thought I was getting a zit this morning, but I still only saw a small red spot on my chin. I wondered whether Colin Bixby had noticed.

The toilet flushed, and Sylvia emerged, a big grin on her face.

“Now I feel better,” she said as she washed her hands.

“So you haven’t talked to Jeff yet? He doesn’t know about the bus trip?” I asked.

Sylvia pushed the button on the air hand dryer, and the motor roared, and for a few minutes she rubbed her hands under it and didn’t answer. When it finally stopped, she wiped her hands on her blue dress and cocked her head at me.

“I’m not sure why you’re harping on this. I’ll call Jeff when I get home.”

“He’s been looking for you. Worried about you,” I said.

She chuckled. “He’s always worrying. Too much. I thought I taught him better. I need to have a life, too, you know.” She winked at me.

I thought a second and then said, “The police have been looking for you, too. They found your car.”

“I told Bernie not to leave the car there, but he didn’t want to call the Triple A. Was too angry at that car to do anything but abandon it, like a kitten or something.”

I pictured them arguing about it by the side of the road, the big tour bus seeing them with their thumbs out. The image made me smile, but then I remembered where I was going with this.

“Well, Sylvia, it seems there was a problem after you left.” I paused, and Sylvia waited. “Did you know there was a body in the trunk of my car when you brought it back to me?”

“Dear, I don’t like to judge, but have you had a drug-related hallucination?” She was totally serious.

I sighed. “One of the Dean Martin impersonators was dead in my trunk. He was killed, I think, by being strangled with a clip cord around his neck.”

“You think?”

“Well, the police haven’t exactly told me the cause of death.”

“Why don’t you ask your brother, that cute detective?”

I’d have to tease Tim that an elderly woman thought he was cute.

“That’s not the whole thing, either.” I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the next sentence but figured I’d just jump in. “The dead man was Ray Lucci.”

Sylvia had put her hand on the restroom door to go out, and it froze there as her face turned white.

“Ray?”

I nodded.

“And the police want to talk to me?” It was sinking in.

“I don’t think they think you had anything to do with it,” I said quickly, “but they think maybe you saw something that might put you in danger.”

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. I followed her out to a small bench a few feet away, where we sat.

I’d never seen Sylvia’s face sag, and I put my hand over hers. She gave me a small, sad smile and patted my hand with her other one, the cheetah-print tote still hanging from her shoulder.

“You know, don’t you, dear?”

“About Ray?”

She nodded.

“Yes. My brother told me.”

“Does Jeff know?”

I shrugged. “I don’t think so. Why didn’t you tell him?”

“It was a long time ago. I met a man I thought I was in love with. When I told him about the baby, he left me.” Her hand stopped patting mine, and she stared into my eyes. “Abortion was illegal, and I was afraid. I gave him up after he was born, but I never forgot him. I found him a few years ago. We’ve been corresponding.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“He was trying to turn his life around. I gave him some money; Bernie’s son-in-law got him that job over there at the wedding chapel.” Her voice faltered. “I don’t remember anything that day, except he sang for us. A beautiful voice that boy has. Not like Jeff. Jeff sounds like a toad.”

I couldn’t say anything. I’m tone-deaf myself.

Sylvia bowed her head and turned her face away. I could see a tear slip down her cheek.

The tattoos crept out over the scoop neck of her dress. Swirls of color: birds, flowers, butterflies. Most were faded from time, their edges leaking into her wrinkles, but a new one, one I hadn’t seen before on the side of her neck, was bright and sharp.

“That’s Amore,” in script.

“W
hen did you get that?”I asked. “What?” Sylvia looked up and wiped her eyes.