Driven to Ink by Karen E. Olson Page B

he was taking in the staff room: the lunch table, the fridge, the bulletin board with our favorite tattoo designs stuck to it, the light table with papers and file folders scattered on it.
    He’d shed the tuxedo and was wearing a nice pair of beige slacks and a white button-down shirt under a navy blazer. He even wore a tie, baby blue with little yellow fleur-de-lis. I wondered what the occasion was.
    Dressed the way he was and without the black Dean Martin wig, I had to admit I was totally intrigued. Even if he turned out to be a stalker. Bitsy would be pleased.
    “I didn’t think I’d see you so soon,” I said to break the ice.
    His head bobbed up and down. “I know, lame, right? But I showed your card to one of the guys at the chapel, and he said your shop was over here at the Venetian, and I was headed over here anyway, so I figured I’d stop in. Maybe see if you could touch up my tat.”
    The red lights that had been flashing in my brain kicked up a notch. “Someone you work with knows my shop? Who?” I hoped I didn’t sound too paranoid.
    “Guy named Lou Marino.”
    I tried to place him but couldn’t. Had he been a client? Something about his name was tugging at my brain.
    Will was still talking, and I missed the first part of what he said, but his next words jolted me. “His wife’s father got married the other day at the chapel. Lou said he married a woman who owns a tattoo shop.”
    “Sylvia Coleman? She used to own Murder Ink.” Small world was suddenly an understatement.
    He nodded, and it hit me. That was why the name was familiar. Rosalie Marino. Bernie’s daughter.
    “His wife is Rosalie?” I asked, thinking about Rosalie’s tattoos. I wasn’t sure Lou Marino was someone I wanted to cross paths with.
    At the mention of Rosalie’s name, Will Parker’s grin vanished and he looked a little uncomfortable. I began to wonder whether Lou Marino’s coworkers knew about the abuse.
    “That’s right,” he said, “Rosalie.”
    “What does her husband do there?” I asked.
    “He’s another Dino.”
    I thought about Sylvia and how she’d requested Ray Lucci that day. Requested him because he was her son. It seemed too odd that Lucci worked with Bernie’s son-in-law. Yet another coincidence. Perhaps.
    “So what about my tattoo?” he asked, pulling me back into the conversation. “Can you do it? Touch it up, I mean.”
    “Not now. You need to make an appointment.”
    “I can’t stay now anyway,” he admitted.
    “You could’ve just called, then.”
    “I had to be over here at the Venetian. I’ve got a job interview. When Lou told me about your shop and I was heading over here anyway, I figured it might be karma that we met this morning.” A smile crept back, and his eyes flashed with a distinct sexiness.
    Karma. I liked the sound of that. And a job interview explained the outfit.
    “Job doing what?” I asked, wondering in what capacity the Venetian would need a Dean Martin impersonator.
    “They’re looking for some performers.”
    “They’re starting a Rat Pack routine?” I asked. It would definitely fit the Italian theme.
    He shook his head. “No, no. I don’t only do Dean. I’m a singer and a dancer. I can do pretty much anything.”
    I had visions of those Renaissance dancers who swirled around St. Mark’s Square on a regular basis, and the idea of Will Parker putting that on his résumé bothered me for some reason.
    Was I snooty enough to not date someone because he pranced around in tights and a big white wig?
    Possibly.
    He saw my hesitation.
    “I know it’s not Broadway, but it pays okay,” he said. “And I’ve got to get out of that wedding chapel.”
    “Why?”
    “Something’s not right over there,” he said, pausing.
    “What’s not right?” I prodded.
    “Ray Lucci’s murder, for one.”
    “But that didn’t happen at the wedding chapel,” I said before thinking. And a nanosecond later I realized I couldn’t be certain it hadn’t. He’d ended up