Driven to Ink (8 page)

“I’m quitting,” he said.

“That’s great.”

“I’m doing it for you, Kavanaugh.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I got tired of you telling me to put out my butts.”

He couldn’t be serious. Could he? The problem was, I really couldn’t tell. And he knew it, too. He started to laugh.

“I had a doctor’s appointment last week. The doc suggested it. Said I might not want to die of cancer or anything.”

“I’m glad you’re listening to him,” I said, still not sure how he wanted me to respond.

“Are you really glad, Kavanaugh? Would you miss me if I kicked?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

I turned my head and stared out the window. Would I miss him? Maybe. Jeff Coleman had grown on me since our first encounters, when we totally hated each other. He constantly teased me about my “upscale” shop and how I thought I was “too good” for a shop like Murder Ink. I knew my mother would tell me that he wouldn’t tease me if he didn’t like me, but the whole idea of girls suffering through boys’ teasing just because the girls think the boys like them seemed to be a precursor for women getting into abusive relationships.
Oh, he verbally abuses you? He does it only because he likes you; so live with it.

I’d like to think that women had advanced past that since it was the twenty-first century now, but unfortunately that sort of thing has never changed.

Jeff took a toothpick out of his front shirt pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, chewing gently on it. His eyes were on the road, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as if to music.

The radio was off.

It didn’t take too long to get to That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel. I knew it right away. The big white plastic heart sign hovered over the building, red and pink plastic ribbons weaving through the name of the chapel. And underneath, WEDDING CHAPEL flashed like a strobe. Below that, DRIVE-THROUGH, smaller. The building itself was long and squat, a long driveway, not unlike a bank drive-through, extending along the front of the building and out toward the side. The overhang dripped greenery and flowers, and as we pulled in, I could see they were fake. And not of very good quality, either. The stucco had been white at one point, but time had tinged it with gray.

It bothered me that Sylvia and Bernie had chosen this worn-out remnant as the place where they’d exchanged vows. Maybe they should’ve gone across the street to the chapel that had a bigger-than-life cutout of Elvis in a tux and doing a dance move over the entrance.

Surprisingly, however, there were three cars in line at That’s Amore as we turned the corner. And then I saw the probable reason why: a sign advertising a special rate of twenty-five dollars if you had your own car.

Up ahead, I could see a Dean Martin impersonator singing in front of the first car parked at a small window. The bank analogy wasn’t far off the mark. As we got closer, the impersonator’s voice rang through the open car windows.

He wasn’t half bad. Actually, it sounded pretty good. Not better than Dino, of course, but close enough to make someone’s wedding day special. If they chose this particular type of nuptials.

Even if he had been awful, I wasn’t one to judge. My voice was flat and lacking any sort of lyrical sound.

A white stretch limo was parked along the driveway, “That’s Amore” in red cursive letters sliding across its side and the address of the chapel below, along with its phone number.

Looking ahead, I saw a couple on a motorcycle in the rear of the line, a big black SUV in front of it, and a sporty convertible at the window. That was the one being serenaded, and the bride had a long white veil over her head as she stood on the seat, waving something that acted as a bouquet but clearly wasn’t. It was bulkier and very possibly yellow. I squinted to see what it was. I didn’t want to ask Jeff to drive closer, or he’d think I was truly interested in this.

“What’s that?” he asked, echoing my own thoughts.

“It’s a bunch of bananas.” We hadn’t heard him approach. He wore a tuxedo identical to the one Ray Lucci had worn in my trunk.

“Bananas?” I asked.

“She’s from one of those islands—Costa Rica, I think. It’s a tribute to her heritage.” The man spoke seriously, as if this were perfectly normal. “You here for a ceremony?”

Jeff nodded. “That’s right.”

“Pay here, and it’s only a short wait,” he said.

I figured Jeff would give him some song and dance about how we were just checking this out, but instead he pulled out his wallet, handing over a fifty-dollar bill. As if we really were going to get married after all.

T
he fact that I started to hyperventilate did not escape the man in the tux as he handed Jeff his change. He leaned into the window and cocked his head at me as he asked Jeff, “Cold feet?”

I’d say freezing feet was more like it.

“Do you have a ladies’ room or something where she might be able to freshen up?” Jeff asked, his voice perfectly normal. As any groom would be concerned about his bride.

At the thought, even more panic bubbled up in my chest, and I tried to catch my breath.

“Your head between your knees,” Jeff said, his hand on the back of my neck, forcing me down. “Breathe deeply.”

With my head down, I couldn’t see him, but I heard him say, “I think we really do need a ladies’ room.”

“Park over there,” the man said, “and go in the front door.”

The car jerked around and then stopped again, and Jeff cut the engine.

“Kavanaugh, that was brilliant,” he whispered.

I peeked up over my knee.

“You paid him,” I said, barely able to hear myself over my pounding heart.

“Best way to get information,” he whispered. “Now get out of the car and keep pretending like you’re going to be sick.”

“Who’s pretending?” I hissed as I pushed open the car door.

I missed the glass doors in the front because potted palms practically covered them. I guess they didn’t want just anyone wandering in and preferred that patrons stay in their cars.

The foyer was dingy white with a pink tinge, the color of underwear that got caught in the color wash. I could hear the strains of “That’s Amore” coming from somewhere, probably the Dean Martin outside. I wondered whether it was Dan Franklin.

The man in the tux materialized suddenly next to me. He took my arm and led me to a door with a cutout image of a bride on it. “Here you go,” he said.

I glanced back at Jeff, who nodded. I didn’t want to go in there. I wanted to stay out here while Jeff asked this guy questions. But maybe this was Jeff’s plan all along. I was only a pawn in his own investigation. He certainly couldn’t come to a wedding chapel all by himself.

I went into the bathroom. I didn’t have much choice.

This room was no more inviting than the foyer. The same dingy walls, old-fashioned sink and vanity. It was a one-seater, everything in one room. It was clean; had to give them that.

But it wasn’t soundproof. I could hear Jeff outside.

“Heard that one of your singers got murdered.”

Silence for a second, then, “Oh, yeah, Ray. He was an ex-con.” He said it as though all ex-cons find themselves murdered at some point. “The cops were here all afternoon yesterday. Bad for business.”

“Who owns this place? Seems like it would be a gold mine.”

“It is. And I do. Own the place. Anthony DellaRocco.”

“Great idea with the Dean Martins.”

“A wig and a tux, and any guy can look like Dino.”

“But they all can’t sing, can they?”

“They can all act drunk.”

I wished Jeff would get on with it. All this chitchat about Dean Martins and who owns the place—who cared? We were here to find out about Lucci, weren’t we?

“So Lucci was an ex-con?”

“Um, yeah.” I could tell Jeff’s change of subject threw DellaRocco for a second. “He stole cars. I got a little worried with him here because every now and then he’d talk about how great a car that came through was. Like that red Mustang Bullitt a couple days ago. I was sure he was going after that one.”

I froze. That was what Dan Franklin had said, that Lucci was eyeing my car.

“That’s the car he was found in,” Jeff said casually.

“Really? How do you know that?”

“I’ve got a friend on the police force. He told me a few things off the record.”

“Like what?” Everyone liked a bit of gossip.

“He and another guy named Dan Franklin had some sort of rift. Franklin works here, too, right?”

It dawned on me that if I could hear them, they could hear me, too. Or not hear me, since I wasn’t doing anything. I turned on the water, which, unfortunately, drowned out the conversation.

Another glance around told me there was another door on the other side of the bathroom. Turning the water on a little higher to make more noise, I tiptoed over to the other door and tugged on it.

It swung open, and I peered around the corner. Seemed like it led into a sort of dressing room, although instead of a wide mirror across one wall, there was only a long vertical one stuck on the back of a door across the room, like you’d see in a store dressing room. A clothes rack was a sort of open closet; tuxedos hung side by side. Must have been ten of them. On a table that reminded me of those you see at a church craft fair, foam heads wore black wigs. Lockers lined the far side of the room. Must have been where the Dean Martins stashed their stuff while they were crooning to newlyweds.

A quick look around, and I stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind me. Even though the cops had already been here, I wondered whether they missed something that Ray Lucci had left behind.

A rat’s cage, maybe?

As I stepped closer, I saw masking tape with names stuck on the locker doors. WILL, ALAN, DAN, LOU, and RAY. Dan must have been Dan Franklin; Ray was Lucci. I didn’t know whether I should care about the others, but I went over the names a few times in my head so I wouldn’t forget them.

I paused, trying to hear whether anyone was coming. I couldn’t hear Jeff and DellaRocco anymore, and the other door to the ladies’ room must have been more soundproof because I couldn’t hear the running water, either.

I didn’t want to tarry too long, so I stepped up to Ray’s locker and pulled it open.

Nothing inside. Not a scrap of paper or even a crumb. It was as though someone had vacuumed it. Like the cops. Who’d been here yesterday, interrupting business.

I shut the door.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I moved to the locker marked DAN. There were clothes in here: jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of running shoes. Because I’m almost six feet tall, I didn’t even need to stand on my toes to see what was on the shelf.

A wallet.

Must have been pretty trusting.

I snatched it down and opened it. Credit cards, a few dollar bills, and a driver’s license.

Dan Franklin should have had his picture taken again.

Because he was the spitting image of Ray Lucci, the guy in my trunk.

While I was always a fan of the Rat Pack, Dean Martin wasn’t my favorite. I had a soft spot for Sammy. Maybe it’s because I have two left feet and am tone-deaf, but Sammy’s moves have always impressed me. Dino, on the other hand, was Frank’s sidekick, the amusing drunk who seemed to be along for the ride.

It was interesting how That’s Amore was breathing new life into him.

I stared at the picture of Dan Franklin and could totally see how Ray Lucci could pass himself off as Franklin. Who would know?

I was about to put the wallet back when I noticed a plastic card that didn’t look like a credit card. I slid it out. An ID card from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Laboratory Animal Care Services.

Dan Franklin was wearing a lab coat in the picture. He looked less like Ray Lucci here.

As I studied it, I flashed back to the rat found with Lucci in my trunk.

Rats are lab animals, aren’t they?

A banging startled me. Tossing the wallet back in the locker and shutting it as quietly as I could, I tried to figure out where the banging was coming from.

It was the ladies’ room. Jeff must have been wondering where I was.

In a few strides, I was at the door I’d come in from. I put my hand on the knob and turned it.

But nothing happened.

I shouldn’t have let the door close. Because it was locked. From the inside.

I
twirled around and assessed my situation.

There were two other doors. One not far from the ladies’ room door, and the one that wore the mirror across the room. I went to the closest one and opened it.

The men’s room.

Figures.

How would I explain that I went into the ladies’ room and came out the men’s?

I had to see where the other door led.

But before I could reach it, it swung open by itself. Well, not really by itself—there was a person behind it.

He stepped around the door and his mouth formed a small “O” when he spotted me standing next to the lockers.

“Who are you?” he asked, his eyes skittering to the lockers and then back to me.

He was onto me. I thought quickly. “I came here to get married, but I got cold feet and went into the ladies’ room, and I was trying sneak out so my fiancé wouldn’t find me.” Hey, sounded like a plan.

“Happens all the time,” he said.

Really? Interesting.

I noticed now his resemblance to Dean Martin—and by extension Ray Lucci and Dan Franklin—but it could’ve been the wig and the tux. Maybe this was Franklin.

He looked from me to the lockers again, a frown etched in his forehead. Being nosy wasn’t a crime, although I hoped he didn’t think I’d taken anything.

“This way,” he said, crooking his finger at me so I’d follow.