We took Trevor’s laptop with us after stuffing the money back in the boots. Kyle wanted to take it, but I didn’t want to have that much cash on my person. I already had Rusty Abbott warning me about accidents, and with that kind of money on me, accidents could most definitely happen.
I was also convinced now that Rusty Abbott was the champagne shooter and somehow he was involved with Wesley Lambert.
It was the ink.
Granted, Jeff Coleman had said two other men had gotten the tattoos the same night, too. But I hadn’t seen anyone else with one yet. So it was easy to place blame.
I’d definitely have to ask Jeff for the other two names when I brought his car back.
I hated to admit it, but it rode well. Not as well as my Mustang Bullitt, but well enough so I wasn’t uncomfortable like I was in Bitsy’s car. I’d been folded up like a pretzel in hers, but even when I wasn’t, my head hit the ceiling.
“So you think someone put ricin on that cork and deliberately shot Trevor with it?” Kyle asked. He hadn’t taken off the dress, the wig, the boots, or the eyelashes, so I supposed I should address him as MissTique.
Who knew I’d be driving a drag queen around in a gold Pontiac? Just call me Huggy Bear.
I nodded. I remembered something else, too. How DeBurra had told me at the scene that no one could find the cork that hit Trevor. Maybe somehow the shooter had managed to get the cork before anyone else could touch it and get contaminated. That way it would seem like a coincidence when Trevor got sick.
“Do you think Charlotte had something to do with it?” Kyle asked.
I sighed. It all kept coming back to her. She was buzzing all over that stage after Trevor got hit. And she did know Wesley Lambert.
“So where do you think she might be?” Kyle interrupted my thoughts.
“I don’t know where to look now,” I admitted. “I really thought she’d be at Trevor’s.”
“Maybe she was there, then left.”
“But where’s Trevor’s makeup case? I’m more inclined to think she was never there in the first place.”
We mulled that over a few seconds as we finally reached Chez Tango. The pickup truck was gone, Kyle’s Honda CRV the only vehicle in the lot.
“Want to come in?” he asked.
“I could use a phone,” I said, thinking I should call Bitsy at the shop and see how angry Tim was. And if Frank DeBurra was ready to lock me up and throw away the key. I still hadn’t answered his questions, and now I was AWOL.
Kyle, or, rather, MissTique, sashayed across the parking lot to the back door at Chez Tango. He unlocked the dead bolt and held the door for me as I went inside.
It was so dark, I couldn’t even see my hand in front of me.
“Lights?” I asked, and as I spoke, the hallway lit up like a chandelier.
Kyle moved past me, and I followed him into the dressing room behind the stage. Racks of sequined and lamé dresses stood sentry next to the row of mirrored dressing tables. As opposed to the other night, the tables were neat and uncluttered, the floor swept and clean.
“Is there a show tonight?” I asked.
Kyle nodded, taking a couple of dresses off the rack. He held up a gold sequined halter dress in front of him, his eyebrows arched high. “What do you think? It was Trevor’s favorite. I think it’s fitting I wear it tonight. We’ll do a tribute to Britney.” He wiped his eye and smiled.
“Trevor would love it,” I said.
He sighed and pointed past the dressing tables. “The phone’s in the office.”
“Thanks.” I left him trying on a wig of blond tresses similar to Britney’s.
The office was dark, and I found a light switch. The dull yellow glow made me wonder when they had last changed the bulb. Or maybe it was one of those newfangled energy-saving bulbs. I’d gotten some for the house, and Tim kept complaining the light was too dim. I argued with him about it for the sake of energy conservation, but secretly I didn’t think they were as bright as the old ones, either.
An old black rotary phone sat on the desk. Brought back memories as I dialed.
“The Painted Lady.”
“Bits, it’s me.”
“Would you like to make an appointment?” Her voice was crisp, businesslike.
“Someone’s there?”
“Tuesday at three sounds fine.”
This wasn’t very productive.
“Is it the cops?”
“Yes.”
“They’re looking for me?”
“Yes.”
“Have you talked to Tim?”
“Yes.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how mad is he?”
“Ten o’clock would be good, too.”
Uh-oh.
“I guess I shouldn’t go home for a while, huh?”
“No.”
“I’m at Chez Tango. With Kyle. He went with me to Trevor’s. Haven’t found Charlotte. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for everything. I really mean it.” I hung up. There was little more I could do.
I sifted through some papers on the desk. Invoices for booze, electrical bills-those might go down if they had the new lightbulbs-a pawnshop ticket.
I glanced quickly at the door to make sure Kyle wasn’t coming.
The pawnshop ticket was from Pawned, the second place I’d visited yesterday and the place where Charlotte had gone. The item listed was a “jeweled pin.” The seller? Trevor McKay. The date on the ticket was two weeks ago. And according to this, he’d gotten a hundred bucks for the brooch.
I turned the ticket over in my hand, looking for answers. But there was nothing there. I contemplated the office, which somehow seemed smaller today than it had the other night, when I did the drawing for Eduardo.
Thinking about that sketch, I realized I hadn’t shown my drawing of Rusty Abbott to Kyle. I hadn’t even asked him whether he knew the guy. They may have met at that ball.
Kyle didn’t have a queen-of-hearts tattoo, though, so he wasn’t one of the guys who’d gone with Abbott to Murder Ink.
I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t hear him approach.
“What do you have there?”
I jumped. Not like a rabbit, but more like a little jolt. I shoved the pawnshop ticket under a stray piece of paper. “Do you know Rusty Abbott?” I asked.
Kyle, who had truly morphed into MissTique now with the addition of fake boobs, said, “He works for Lester Fine.”
“So you know him?”
“I don’t know him well. I met him at the Queen of Hearts Ball. He came to the club a couple times.”
“He came to see a show?”
Kyle nodded.
“Did he come with Lester Fine?”
Kyle barked out a laugh. “Girl, Lester Fine wouldn’t be caught dead in my club. He’s running for public office. The headlines would tear him apart.”
“Did you see Rusty Abbott around here the night Trevor got hit with the cork?”
He hesitated a second, then said, “I don’t think so.” The light was too lousy to see any real change in his expression.
“I think it was his truck that was outside earlier,” I said.
He shrugged. “That was his truck? Then why did you ask me if I knew who it belonged to?” Suspicion crept into his tone.
I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I had no idea what I was looking for.
Kyle sighed. “Brett, you’ve had a long day. You’re tired and looking for conspiracies where they probably don’t exist. Maybe you should just go home now and fess up to your brother that you went out looking for Charlotte and couldn’t find her.”
He was trying to get rid of me.
I was ready to be gotten rid of.
I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but I did know that I suddenly felt very alone here at Chez Tango, and that wasn’t a good thing.
“You’re right,” I agreed.
Before I left the dressing room, I turned around. Kyle had followed me out of the office and was standing with his hand on one hip.
“Thanks for everything.”
“Will you tell your brother about the money?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. I think I have to.”
I started out again.
“Be careful, Brett,” Kyle said to my back.
“You, too.” I didn’t turn around. Just kept walking.
The parking lot was still deserted except for the gold Pontiac and the Honda. As I walked toward Jeff’s car, the key in my hand, I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
When it hit me, I stopped. Stared.
All four tires were flat.
And when I stooped down to check them out, I saw why.
Someone had slashed them.