The Missing Ink by Karen E. Olson Page A

There’s a body up there, in the bathroom, in the bathtub.” As I said it, I started to feel a little woozy.
    I sank down on the floor, dropping my case at my side, and put my head between my knees.
    “What’s the problem?”
    It was a baritone, with an English accent.
    “She says there’s a body in the Marie Antoinette Suite,” I heard the footman whisper.
    “Who are you?” I felt his breath on my cheek, and I looked up into deep brown eyes that twinkled at me.
    “Brett Kavanaugh. The Painted Lady.”
    His mouth quivered slightly, as if he wanted to smile but stopped himself in time. I felt myself get warm all over as his eyes now moved to my arm and then across my chest to the dragon’s head, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. In fact, just the opposite.
    “Yes, Miss Kavanaugh, I see that. What were you doing in the Marie Antoinette Suite, and what did you see up there?”
    I glanced behind him to see a crowd starting to form. I cocked my head and said, “Maybe we should just go up there and I can show you.”
    His hand was under my elbow—sending a small electric shock through me that I told myself was just from the carpeting, but from the way he was looking at me, I wasn’t totally able to convince myself of that—and he gently helped me up, leaning down slightly to pick up my case with his other hand. “Let’s,” he said simply and nodded at the footman, who fetched the elevator for us.
    Once inside and going up, my stomach doing more flip-flops, I noticed the stranger was slightly taller than I was and had a sort of rakish, Hugh Jackman look about him. His hair was blonder, streaked with natural highlights, brushed back to emphasize the angles of his face. I figured he was mid-thirties or so. He wore a navy suit with a red tie but carried it off better than the Young Republican I’d seen earlier.
    “Who are you?” I asked.
    He did smile then.
    “Simon Chase. I’m the manager.”
    “I thought everyone here had to be French.”
    His eyebrows arched slightly. “It is a bit of a sacrilege to have an Englishman here, but Bruce Manning likes my résumé.”
    “And I guess what Bruce Manning likes, Bruce Manning gets,” I said, happy to have a small distraction from what we were about to walk in on.
    “Perhaps now that you know who I am, you can tell me why you’re here, Miss Kavanaugh.”
    “I was here to give a guy a tattoo, but when I showed up, I didn’t see the guy I was supposed to see. Instead, I saw some other guy dead in the bathtub.”
    “Are you sure he’s dead?”
    “He didn’t look alive.” As I remembered, I took a deep breath and hoped I wouldn’t get woozy again.
    The amusement disappeared off his face, and his mouth set in a grim line. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
    I got the sense he didn’t believe me—like I would make something like that up—but before I could say anything further, the doors slid open and we were stepping back into the suite.
    I smelled it then, the faint pungent scent that I hadn’t noticed the first time because I’d been too hopped up about my celebrity encounter. Simon Chase smelled it, too, and his nose wrinkled, leading him toward the bathroom. I followed, not only to make sure the body was there, like I’d said, but to keep an eye on my case, which he was still carrying.
    Simon Chase turned at the door, his hand again taking my elbow and steering me back out into the living area. “I see what you mean.” He looked over at the footman, who was standing sentry at the elevator. “Please call nine-one-one. But we need to be discreet. Have them meet you at the loading dock entrance, and bring them up that way, please.”
    The footman nodded and stepped backward into the elevator, the doors closing.
    Simon Chase let go of me then, put my case on the floor, and sank down on the back of a plush sofa, facing me.
    “So, Miss Kavanaugh, you were here for a job. To tattoo a gentleman. But not that gentleman in the loo?”
    “No. Not