Free The Missing Ink by Karen E. Olson Page A

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