Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Teaser chapter
Praise for the Novels of Karen E. Olson
The Tattoo Shop Mysteries
The Missing Ink
“Karen E. Olson has launched a delightful new series with The Missing Ink, featuring tattooist Brett Kavanaugh. Brett is proud that she makes grown men cry. She also makes grown women laugh. I look forward to more adventures for this Las Vegas needle artist.”
—Elaine Viets, author of the Dead-End Job Mysteries
“In The Missing Ink, Karen E. Olson has penned a winner, full of crisp dialogue, a red-hot setting, and a smart, sassy, tattooed protagonist. Viva Las Vegas!”
—Susan McBride, author of the Debutante
Dropout Mysteries
“[A] pleasantly jargon-free themed mystery. . . . Readers need not be conversant with ‘street flash’ or other industry terms to enjoy the setting and follow Brett down a trail of needles and gloves to the dramatic finale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A fun read. . . . The characters are as quirky as Las Vegas itself. . . . [Brett] is both likable and down-to-earth, and will have readers returning for more.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Olson uses the fresh setting of an upscale Las Vegas tattoo shop . . . for a fast-moving tale with quirky but affectionately portrayed characters. Although stubborn, Brett never becomes too stupid to live in her determination to solve the mystery. The tension is kept at a high pitch.”
—Romantic Times
“Fun. . . . The setup is pure, the setting is flashy . . . and I expect that Brett Kavanaugh will find a devoted following.”
—Gumshoe
“This one has it all with edgy characters and a tight plot.”
—Mystery Scene
“Ms. Olson walks readers through a multiple-murder mystery, supplying clues at a steady pace. The Missing Ink is suspenseful, entertaining from the start, and has a touch of romance that nicely rounds out the story.”
—Darque Reviews
“Features the same smooth writing, insightful character development, and complex plotting as the Annie Seymour books. Brett’s team at the Painted Lady is delightful, an eclectic mix of characters that adds to the fun.”
—Cozy Library
“A winner. . . . Brett is a likable, albeit unusual heroine. I’m looking forward to seeing more of her and her zany cohorts in future books.”
—Fresh Fiction
“An extremely fast, extremely entertaining read. Brett is highly likable . . . the supporting characters, especially those who work in the Painted Lady, are diverse and interesting; the plotline is completely unique and unexpected. . . . The potential for romance in future tales is sure to keep the series fresh in novels yet to come. . . . Brett’s work is just getting started in Las Vegas, and I can’t wait to find out what happens in her next adventure.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
The Annie Seymour Mysteries
Shot Girl
“Olson excels at plotting—with liberal doses of humor—and Annie grows more fascinating, and more human, with each novel. This one’s a winner from page one.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Easily the best one. . . . [Olson] step[s] up to a new storytelling level.”
—The Baltimore Sun
“Features the same clever plotting, great local color, and terrific personal touches that have been a hallmark of the series since it began.”
—Connecticut Post
Dead of the Day
“Karen E. Olson knows this beat like the back of her hand. I really enjoyed Dead of the Day.”
—New York Times bestselling author Michael Connelly
“Dead of the Day takes the Annie Seymour series to truly impressive territory. Absolutely everything a first-rate crime novel should be.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lee Child
“Karen E. Olson draws on her experiences as a journalist to write an excellent series about Annie Seymour, a salty police reporter in New Haven, Connecticut. Dead of the Day is a fun mystery with just enough edge to make it sparkle.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Like an alchemist, Karen E. Olson blends together wildly disparate elements into pure gold. Dead of the Day is a delightful dance with the devil—dangerous, dark, and romantic.”
—Reed Farrel Coleman, Shamus Award-winning author of Soul Patch
Secondhand Smoke
“Annie Seymour, a New Haven journalist who’s not quite as cynical as she thinks she is, is the real thing, an engaging and memorable character with the kind of complicated loyalties that make a series worth reading. Karen E. Olson is the real thing, too, a natural storyteller with a lucid style and a wonderful sense of place.”
—New York Times bestselling author Laura Lippman
“Authentic urban atmosphere, generous wit, and winning characters lift Olson’s second outing for Annie Seymour. . . . Readers are sure to look forward to Annie’s further adventures.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Annie is a believable heroine whose sassy exploits and muddled love life should make for more exciting adventures.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“[Olson’s] fast-paced plot and great ending make it a perfect read for patrons who like a bit of humor in their mysteries.”
—Library Journal
“Olson knows exactly how to blend an appealing heroine, an intricate plot, and inventive humor. Annie’s is a story worth pursuing and a story well worth reading.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
Sacred Cows
“A sharply written and beautifully plotted story.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Olson writes with a light touch that is the perfect complement for this charming mystery.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Karen E. Olson plunges readers into the salty-tongued world of cynical reporter sleuth Annie Seymour. . . . Spins from sinister to slapstick
and back in the breadth of a page. Engaging.”
—Denise Hamilton, bestselling author of Trials to Treasure
“A boilermaker of a first novel. . . . Olson writes with great good humor, but Sacred Cows is also a roughhouse tale. Her appealing and intrepid protagonist and well-constructed plot make this book one of the best debut novels of the year.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
Also by Karen E. Olson
Tattoo Shop Mysteries
Pretty in Ink
The Missing Ink
Annie Seymour Mysteries
Shot Girl
Dead of the Day
Secondhand Smoke
Sacred Cows
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, September 2010
eISBN : 978-1-101-44289-0
Copyright © Karen E. Olson, 2010
All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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http://us.penguingroup.com
To my sister, Sandy
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have to thank Clair Lamb and Cheryl Violante for their help with the manuscript and for not letting our friendship get in the way of a firm critique. The First Offenders (Alison Gaylin, Jeff Shelby, Lori Armstrong, and Anthony Neil Smith) are, as usual, a wonderful sounding board and great friends. Thanks to my favorite book bloggers (Wendy, Christina, Alice, and Iliana) for being so supportive, and to Ania, who helped me see beyond the tattoos. Special thanks to Molly Weston, who went above and beyond to make me, Julie Hyzy, and Hank Phillippi Ryan feel like celebrities. Thanks to Rachel Kristina Jones for her generosity and such a great name. My agent, Jack Scovil, continues to be enthusiastic and always puts things in perspective. My editor, Sandy Harding, and publicist, Megan Swartz, are a pleasure to work with. Thanks to all my readers who e-mail me to tell me they love Brett and her world. It keeps a writer going to know you’re out there. And a final shout out to my husband, Chris, and daughter, Julia, who are everything to me.
Chapter 1
When Sylvia and Bernie came back from That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel with my car, it would’ve been nice if they’d taken the body out of the trunk.
As it was, I didn’t discover it until a day later, when I hit a bump and heard a thump that made me curious about what I might have forgotten to unload on my last trip to the grocery store. By that time, the newly married Sylvia Coleman and Bernie Applebaum—Sylvia said at her age she wasn’t about to take on any new names—were at the Grand Canyon on their honeymoon, and I was in my driveway staring at the corpse of a man in a tuxedo—as if he’d expected death would be a black-tie affair.
Being both the daughter and sister of police officers, I did the first thing that came to mind: I called Sylvia’s son, Jeff Coleman, to find out whether he knew anything about this.
“Murder Ink.” Jeff’s voice bellowed through my ear. Murder Ink was his business, a tattoo shop up near Fremont Street, next door to Goodfellas Bail Bonds. He specialized in flash, the stock tattoos that lined the walls of his shop, even though I knew firsthand that he was an amazing artist when he put his mind to it.
Despite the flash, Jeff was one of my main competitors in Vegas. I own The Painted Lady, where we do only custom designs. We cater to a classier client, and my shop is in the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes on the Strip, a high-end themed mall that would never have allowed a tattoo shop to sully its image without a little blackmail by the shop’s former owner.
“It’s Brett.”
“Kavanaugh?”
“Your mother seems to have left me a little something for the use of my car yesterday.” Sylvia had asked me nicely if she and Bernie could use my red Mustang Bullitt convertible for their drive-through wedding. She said it was preferable to Bernie’s blue 1989 Buick and her thirty-five-year-old purple Gremlin, which looked like a lizard with its tail cut off.
“What about Jeff’s Pontiac?” I’d asked her.
“It’s bright yellow. It looks like a pimp’s car.”
I couldn’t argue with that. It did look like a pimp’s car. I told Sylvia that she was welcome to use my Mustang, but she had to drive. Bernie’s cataract surgery wasn’t scheduled for another six weeks, and even though Sylvia said she “watched the road” for him, it didn’t inspire much confidence.
“What are you talking about, Kavanaugh?” Jeff was asking.
“There’s a man in my trunk.”
A low chuckle told me that perhaps I hadn’t described the situation properly.
“A dead man. In a tuxedo.”
“And you’re sure my mother left it there for you?”
“I certainly don’t remember it being there before she borrowed my car.”
“So let me play devil’s advocate a minute. Maybe he climbed into your trunk and died after my mother and Bernie returned the car.”
Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that. I recounted where the car had been since they dropped it off for me at the Venetian, and it had only been there and here, in my driveway overnight, and then at Red Rock Canyon this morning when I went for a hike. I leaned farther in toward the body. On the right breast pocket I could see something stitched in red thread: “That’s Amore.”
“He’s from the wedding chapel, Jeff. His tux is an advertisement. It’s got the name sewn on it.”
“Is your brother home? Has he seen the body?”
My brother, Detective Tim Kavanaugh, hadn’t been home all night. I could only surmise that either he was catching bad guys or he’d had a late date that spilled over into morning.
“No.”
“Have you called the cops, then?”
“Doing it now.” I punched END on my cell and sent Jeff Coleman into oblivion as I now entered 911. But as I
was about to hit SEND, I realized I should try to reach Tim first, before he came home to a driveway full of police cruisers and the coroner’s van.
He answered on the first ring.
“What do you want, Brett?”
His tone was cold, but the fact that he’d actually answered his phone meant that he was probably doing police stuff and not with a woman. A good thing for me, but perhaps not for him.
“You remember how I let Sylvia and Bernie borrow my car? For their wedding the other day?”
A heavy sigh told me he wasn’t into tripping down memory lane and I should get on with it.
“Well, they left me a body. In the trunk.”
A second of silence, then, “What are you talking about?”
I told him about Mr. That’s Amore. “He’s from the chapel. The drive-through.” I explained about the stitching on his pocket.
“Brett, how do you get yourself into these messes?” He was referring to a couple of other incidence in the last six months, incidence that were completely out of my control, thank you very much.
“I told you not to let that wacko borrow your car,” he said.
“She’s not a wacko,” I said, although not with much confidence. Sylvia had her moments. I didn’t know exactly how old she was, but I guessed she was in her seventies or possibly early eighties. She and her former husband had owned Murder Ink before he died and she retired, handing over the business to Jeff. She spent a lot of time at the tattoo shop and had actually inked my calf: Napoleon going up the Alps. It was one of my favorite Jacques-Louis David paintings, and I did the stencil. Sylvia, as far as I knew, didn’t do any original designs—and sometimes I wondered whether she hadn’t a touch of dementia. But I was happy she and Bernie had hooked up. They started swimming together at the Henderson pool a few months back, and it developed into a late-in-life romance.
“So you don’t recognize this man?” Tim asked, completely reversing the conversation and throwing me off balance for a second.
“You mean the guy in the trunk?”
“Yes, Brett, the guy in the trunk.” Exasperation had seeped into Tim’s tone, and I totally didn’t need that right now.
I counted to ten as I leaned a little farther into the trunk and peered at Mr. That’s Amore. His face was whiter than that zinc stuff you put on your nose so you won’t get sunburn. His eyes were closed, but his mouth hung open slackly, as if he didn’t have the energy to close it. With only a few spots of dust and dirt, the tux was remarkably neat, considering he was stuffed in my trunk.