I took the glass and empty plate to the kitchen, placing them in the dishwasher. Neither of us had eaten at home today except for breakfast, and it could be a few days before we had enough dishes in there to warrant using the water.
One of my biggest issues with Las Vegas is the water situation. By all rights, we shouldn’t have any. We’re in the desert, and the fact that water is in short supply is no mystery. Lake Mead, our water supply source, was down a hundred feet because of the drought, yet every resort and casino used so much water every day that we could probably fill another ocean in no time. Every time I looked at that fake canal that ran parallel to my shop, I tried not to feel guilty.
I shut the dishwasher, turned out the light, and went to my bedroom, where I fell on top of the covers and went to sleep immediately.
Regardless, I woke up sometime in the night when I heard Tim come in after all. He tended to have heavy feet, and I followed his footsteps in my head around the house as he got himself a glass of water in the kitchen and then went into his bedroom and shut the door.
I barely slept again, my nervousness about 20/20 bubbling up in my chest. How could I call it off? Could I do that to my staff?
When I got to the shop the next morning-Tim had managed to sneak out during one of my bits of sleep, thus alleviating my guilt about not telling him about Jeff Coleman-Bitsy and Joel acted like it was Christmas, and even Ace wore a pair of jeans that didn’t have a hole in the knee.
They all had dressed up like they were going to their First Communion. Bitsy had a new pair of trousers and a cute blue top that accentuated her blond curls. Joel’s massive frame wasn’t quite so overwhelming in a subdued charcoal rayon shirt and cream-colored slacks.
“What did you people do with my staff?” I asked as I surveyed them over my to-go coffee cup.
Joel circled me, his head shaking sadly. “Brett, you have to go get yourself something else to wear. I’ll go with you.”
I didn’t think my print skirt and black tank top were awful. Why should I look different today?
When I voiced that out loud, Bitsy “tsk-tsked” me. Even Ace made a face.
I sighed. “Okay, Joel, take me out, dress me up.”
The smile spread across his face as he clapped his hands. “Goody!”
“We’re probably only going to be on air for about one minute, you know. No one will even notice what we’re wearing.”
No one got it. Joel shuffled me out of the shop and pointed me in the direction of Ann Taylor.
“You do realize that this sort of thing gives me hives?” I asked him as I showed off a wraparound dress with a print that clashed with my tats.
“Oh, shut up and deal,” Joel said, handing me a pair of white cotton trousers and a flowing purple silk sleeveless top.
I got the top caught on one of my hoop earrings. Or maybe two of them. I wandered out of the dressing room with it stuck on my head, my bra and dragon exposed for all to see. Not to mention the tiger lily that stretched along the side of my torso from my breast to my hip. And the Celtic cross on my upper back.
Joel chuckled as he set the top free, and it settled on my frame like it was supposed to.
Joel stepped back and studied me, cocking his head from side to side. “Hold on a sec,” he said, and he disappeared, reappearing a minute later with a pair of red patent-leather pumps with a heel that was at least four inches high. They rivaled the Kenneth Cole shoes; in fact, I liked them even better.
I slipped them on and stood slightly taller than Joel, who was nodding so hard I thought he’d turned into a bobble-head doll.
“That’s it,” he said, “that’s the one.”
I stepped in front of the three-way mirror and had to admit it looked good. I would never have chosen this for myself, but Joel had taste. The manager was nice enough to snip off the tags so I could wear the new clothes out of the store, and she bagged up the old ones.
We walked back to the shop, looping around the canal and passing Breathe, the oxygen bar. Ace sat on the end stool, the oxygen tube in his nose, a short Asian girl massaging his back with something that looked like a large fork.
Joel sighed as he shook his head at me. Ace was addicted to the aromatherapy oxygen, swore it gave him more energy. His eyes were closed, his face serene as he sucked in that air.
I just hoped they changed those tubes so Ace wasn’t sticking someone else’s snot up his nose every time.
My outfit got murmurs of approval from Bitsy. Since she’d canceled all our appointments until late afternoon, we didn’t have anything to do, and Joel wouldn’t let me finish my coffee because he thought I’d spill on my new white trousers.
He was probably right. I drank a Pellegrino.
The shop was gussied up, too, like the rest of us: A fresh spray of purple orchids had replaced the sad little white one on the front desk; the floor gleamed.
Ace came back about fifteen minutes later, his eyes alert.
“What time are they coming?” Ace asked Bitsy, who’d scheduled everything.
I didn’t hang around to hear her answer; I went into the staff room and saw that all the piles of stencils I’d made had been filed neatly. I was getting too nervous to start the stencil I needed for later that day, so I turned on the TV, channel surfing until I saw a familiar face on CNN.
Elise Lyon was still missing.
But the media had caught wind of last night’s twist.
“In a related story, a young woman named Kelly Masters was shot and killed and found in her car at McCarran International Airport yesterday afternoon,” the anchor was saying.
Joel came in and started to say something, but I waved in his general direction, shushing him.
“Police believe Kelly Masters may have had some connection with Elise Lyon’s disappearance.”
I held my breath.
“Police found Elise Lyon’s driver’s license under the seat of the car.”
Chapter 14
They were connected. Elise was posing as Kelly, and Kelly had Elise’s license. Had Kelly planned to pose as Elise? What was the deal between them? Had they switched iden tities for some reason?
I didn’t have time to ponder it any further, because the TV crew had arrived. The producer brought in a couple of camera and sound guys and proceeded to rearrange the area Bitsy and Ace had arranged the night before. Lights went up, blasting hot rays. I was glad my new blouse was sleeveless.
Bitsy coordinated it all. Ace, Joel, and I hovered in the background. Until the producer shouted, “Brett Kavanaugh? Who is Brett?”
I raised my hand like I was in fourth grade, and he came over to me. “This segment will be taped, and we’ll air it tonight. Understand?”
I nodded.
“We need to mike you.”
I indicated Bitsy, who I could see was chomping at the bit. “She was here, too. Her name is Bitsy Hendricks; she talked to Kelly-I mean Elise-too.”
The producer glanced at Bitsy, and while I didn’t see his expression change, I felt a distinct chill in the air. “We only have two minutes on air. We only have time for one of you.”
He held the mike, which was attached to a small black box by a long wire. I put my hand on it and shoved it toward him. “Then interview Bitsy, okay?”
He didn’t even look at Bitsy. “No. You. You’re the owner.” Like that made me the only grown-up in the room. I could see by the set of his mouth that he wasn’t going to argue this with me, that he was right and I was wrong, so I nodded, shrugging at Bitsy, who looked like she was getting ready to call her lawyer to file a discrimination suit against ABC. I wouldn’t put it past her.
The producer fastened the black box on the back of my trousers. “I’m going to feed the wire up through your shirt. Can you grab it and bring it up around to your collar?”