It couldn’t be a coincidence.
I was faced with a dilemma now, though. Did I call Tim and tell him about this? Maybe one thing didn’t have anything to do with the other. Maybe this Dan Franklin had come in wanting the title of a Dean Martin song embedded on him somewhere because he was a Rat Pack fan.
Rat Pack. Dino, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, Joey Bishop. Vegas and the Rat Pack were interchangeable in the fifties and sixties. One of my favorite movies is Ocean’s Eleven, not the George Clooney version, but the Rat Pack original.
Had someone been sending a message with that rat in the trunk?
If I did call Tim, that Detective Flanigan might get suspicious of Joel. After all, Franklin was his client, and it was his clip cord that was missing.
On the other hand, if I told Tim, he could look for this Dan Franklin to find out whether he had any connection to the guy in my trunk. And we couldn’t be sure that the cord around Mr. That’s Amore’s neck was Joel’s.
I looked through the file folder but saw only the sketches Joel had done. I took it out to the front desk, where Bitsy was sitting with her head tucked in her arms.
“Dan Franklin,” I said loudly, startling her.
She jumped up and stared at me with wide eyes. “What?”
“Where’s the paperwork for Dan Franklin? Joel’s first client yesterday.” While I spoke, I waved the “That’s Amore” sketch at her.
Bitsy’s mouth formed a perfect “O” as she pulled out the drawer in the bottom of the desk and retrieved yet another file folder. This one, however, held the copy of the receipt and the release form Dan Franklin had filled out before his appointment.
“He paid cash,” Bitsy said as I scanned the form.
The release form included the client’s name, address, phone number, and a statement the client had to sign, claiming he was over eighteen years old. We made photocopies of the client’s driver’s license to prove he was of age. It was similar to the form you’d fill out at the doctor’s office, because it asked about health issues. We needed to know whether the client had any condition that might mean the tattoo would be dangerous to him or to us. The documents also included a waiver we asked clients to sign, saying we weren’t responsible for infection or aftercare.
Even Jeff Coleman, in his street shop up near Fremont and next to Goodfellas Bail Bonds, had client forms like this. Any reputable shop does.
Dan Franklin’s form said he lived in Henderson. Not too far from where I lived, actually. I picked up the phone, but I stopped before dialing. What would I ask him? Hey, you got a tattoo at my shop. Did you just happen to pocket one of our clip cords when you left? And if you did, did you use it to kill Mr. That’s Amore?
It all sounded so ridiculous. And I didn’t even know Mr. That’s Amore’s name.
Bitsy scowled as I hesitated, and she leaned over and snatched the phone out of my hand. She punched in Dan Franklin’s phone number.
After a few seconds, she said, “Mr. Franklin, this is Bitsy Hendricks at The Painted Lady. We’re checking up to make sure everything’s all right with your new tattoo. Could you please call back at your earliest convenience? We need to make a report to the health department, so we’d appreciate your call. Thank you.” And she rattled off our number before hanging up.
Smooth. Very smooth.
“That’s why you work for me,” I said proudly.
Bitsy was beaming. “Thank you, thank you, to the Academy,” she said, bowing slightly at the waist, her short blond bob bouncing against her face.
I looked out the glass door toward the canal and spotted Joel lumbering back toward the shop. It was all I could do not to rush out and pull him in. I waited as patiently as I could until he pushed the door in, stopping short when he saw Bitsy and me staring at him.
“What? What did I do?”
“Dan Franklin. Why didn’t you tell me you tattooed ‘That’s Amore’ on him?”
Joel shrugged. “What of it? He wanted the tat around his biceps. Easy. Why does this matter?”
“The guy in my trunk was from the That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel.”
“Really?” He looked from me to Bitsy and back to me. “I didn’t know that.”
Bitsy slapped him on the forearm with Dan Franklin’s file. “You did so. I told you that’s where Sylvia and Bernie got married.”
“But you didn’t tell me the dead guy was from there.”
The folder, which was about to come down again, stopped midair. “Hmm,” Bitsy said thoughtfully. “Maybe in all the excitement I did leave that little tidbit out.”
“You?” I teased. “You left out a tidbit? What else have you left out? Don’t you know we rely on your reporting to know what’s going on?”
The folder changed direction and came down on my arm this time.
“Don’t get smart with me.” She frowned, but I could tell she didn’t mind.
“So do you think this Dan Franklin has something to do with that guy in your trunk?” Joel asked. God bless him, but he was slow on the uptake today. Maybe it was all that meat he was eating. Give the man a doughnut, and the sugar rush would spark his brain.
“Could be,” I said.
“Maybe you should go over there, to that wedding chapel,” Bitsy said. “See if anyone there knows this Dan Franklin.”
Now that was an idea. Although I could hear Tim now, telling me I shouldn’t get involved in police business.
But I was still on the fence about that. Franklin might not have anything to do with Mr. That’s Amore. It could be a coincidence.
If it turned out not to be, then I could share what I found out with Tim.
At least that was the way I was justifying it.
Problem was, if I went over to the wedding chapel, would they tell me anything?
I didn’t have time to play detective. I had a client coming in. And speak of the devil, but didn’t the door open right at that very moment.
Carla Higgins had a Dr. Seuss fetish. She already had the Cat in the Hat on her right shoulder and the Lorax on her left, and today she was in for Yertle the Turtle in the center to balance them all out. She’d expressed a desire for Thing 1 and Thing 2, one on each biceps, but decided Yertle was more pressing.
I took her into my room with a little shrug in Bitsy and Joel’s direction. Work before pleasure. Or at least before any snooping around.
I put the stencil on Carla’s back and gave her a mirror to make sure it was in the right place.
“It’s perfect,” she said as I pulled a disposable needle and needle bar out of their respective packages.
As I pressed my foot on the pedal that turned on the machine, causing its familiar whine, and started to draw, I thought about Joel’s clip cord and why Dan Franklin might have thought to pocket it on his way out of here yesterday. Had he seen it and thought it would make a good murder weapon? Something that couldn’t be traced back to him directly?
Who thought like that? Who went through their day looking for unusual murder weapons?
I obviously was not in tune with the mind of a murderer.
Which was a good thing.
Yertle the Turtle was done in no time. Carla was thrilled as she went out to pay Bitsy. I started cleaning up my inks, throwing away the small containers. Everything had to be disposable or sterilized. Usually Bitsy cleaned up, but I wanted the busy work, something to keep my mind occupied, because I was still going over how I would talk to Tim about Dan Franklin. Halfway through Yertle, I’d realized I had to tell him, even if it was way off the mark.
My gut told me it wasn’t, though.
Bitsy stuck her head through my door, waving the phone. “Phone for you, Brett.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece.
“It’s your brother,” she said in a stage whisper.