To Thine Own Self Be True (15 page)

“Makes sense.”

“Makes a lot of sense. Unlike the bill. You know about it?”

I nodded. “Your dad and Mickey Spurgeon explained it to me. Plus I found a good commentary on-line.”

“The one from the Body Art e-zine?”

“Yup.”

“That’s a good one. So, you know the bill’s a bunch of crap. Bergman set out to make people aware.”

“So what’s at stake for him is his tattoo business?”

“His way of life, mostly. I mean, he’s a lawyer, he doesn’t need to tattoo for a living.”

Becky came into the room carrying a tray. “Thought you might want some refreshment while you talk.”

The tray, which Becky set on the coffee table, held a teapot and cups, creamer, sugar, and some delicious-looking little biscuits.

“These are scones,” Becky said. “I popped some in the oven when you said you were coming over. And this is homemade raspberry jam. Help yourself. Can I pour you a cup of tea?”

“Sure. Thanks.” So much for Lucy’s lunch of leftovers.

Becky filled a cup. “Sugar? Milk?”

I said no to both, but yes to the scones. They were amazing.

“Back to Bergman,” I said, when I’d swallowed.

“Oh, yes,” Becky said. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“It’s a lifestyle thing,” Dreama said. “If we let the government start to censor body art, where are they going to stop? It all comes down to your run-of-the-mill folks who don’t want to have to see art on people’s bodies. Why else would they ban facial tattoos? They’re still allowing permanent make-up done by ‘corrective cosmetic artists,’ whatever they’re supposed to be, but any individual expression would be prohibited. They just don’t want to have to look at anyone who’s not ‘normal.’”

“So Bergman’s really out to keep our country free—the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Sure.” She paused. “The worst thing is this bill’s not by people who admit they’re censoring art, or who even know the business at all. It’s really just because people are ill-informed and ignorant. You can’t tell me if these people would see my dad’s shop they’d believe it’s unsanitary. It’s like a hospital, it’s so clean in there.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Becky said, irritation seeping into her cultured voice. “The FDA is even getting involved in making ink. The government says otherwise Rusty could be sued if someone has a reaction to the colors he uses. Well, that’s why people fill out the waiver before they get a tattoo. They’re supposed to tell him about any allergies they have before he even starts work.”

“Okay, Mom,” Dreama said. “Calm down. The bill hasn’t passed yet.”

Becky smoothed invisible lines on her pants. “Sorry. It just gets to me.”

“So tell me about Senator Farley,” I said. “What’s his deal?”

“No one knows for sure,” Dreama said. “I’ve been looking into it for a follow-up project for government class. I even tried to set up an appointment to see him, but he claims to be busy until late January.”

“Gotta love the accessibility of our senators,” I said.

“I’ve found some stuff, and talked with a few people. But mostly it’s just rumors.”

“Like what?”

“Like some conservative bigwig is bankrolling it all. Like one of his kids got tattooed underage, or even that he’s being blackmailed over something. It’s hard to say.”

“The backing is the interesting one to me. Isn’t Farley a Democrat? Where is he getting political support for a bill like this?”

“He claims it’s from both parties, but the only ones advertising are the ones on the far right.”

I took another sip of tea and felt the warmth travel down to my stomach. It felt good. “And what about the blackmail? Or his kids? Anything to back that up?”

“Just this.” She shuffled through her folder and pulled out a photocopied cover of a
National Enquirer
from a couple of years ago. The main picture was a blurry photo of a young teen, her exposed shoulder marred by a blotchy tattoo that was probably supposed to be a rose. Between the quality of the photo and the copying machine it was hard to tell. The headline screamed, “
She Was Mutilated By A Freak
!”

“Farley’s daughter?” I asked.

“Yup. She was only fourteen, so it was completely illegal since her parents didn’t know about it. And according to this article—but remember it
is
the
Enquirer
—she got so sick from infection she had to be hospitalized.”

Becky sniffed. “Obviously she went to some back alley hack, and not a pro like Rusty.”

I studied the picture. “Anybody know who the tattoo artist was?”

“No one knows
anything
,” Dreama said. “This is the only thing I found
anywhere
. Farley kept it completely secret, if it really happened. Didn’t want anyone knowing about it.”

I thought about Wolf and Mandy, keeping Billy’s attack to themselves. Not even their closest friends, Mick and Jewel, seemed to know about it.

Friends? Lovers? I hoped the Spurgeons called me back soon.

“Could that be enough motivation for the bill?” I asked. “That his fourteen-year-old got tattooed?”

“If it’s true.” Becky leaned over and re-filled my teacup. “I’m all for altering your looks artistically, but if Dreama had gone behind our backs and gotten some creep to do her when she was underage, I’d be going after him with both barrels.”

“But to target the whole tattooing community?”

Becky smiled grimly. “You forget. Most people think they’re
all
back alley hacks.”

“Talking about me again?” Rusty stood in the doorway, yawning and parading color into the off-white room. This morning—late morning by now—I was treated to the whole view. He wore only a pair of paint-spattered sweat pants, leaving the city on his chest free and clear for all to enjoy.

“Daddy!” Rose squealed.

I jumped, having forgotten she was there, she’d been so quiet. Rose flung herself into Rusty’s arms, and he laughed, almost dropping her in his groggy state.

“Just discussing your unethical counterparts, darling,” Becky said.

The phone rang, and Dreama perked up. “Can I get that? I’m expecting Zane to call. I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

She jumped up and ran out, and Becky smiled. “Zane’s such a sweet boy. If only he could see fit to take off the chain hooked between his ear and his nose, at least for church.”

Rusty put Rose down gently. “Does my girl want to get me a big glass of orange juice to help me wake up?”

“Sure, Daddy.” She hopped on one foot—just like Tess—out into what I assumed was the kitchen.

“Dreama helping you out?” Rusty asked me.

“Telling me about Bergman and Farley.”

“You really think they have something to do with Mandy and Wolf?”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “I don’t know. Mandy did say she had something on Farley. It wouldn’t be the first time people have killed for politics.”

Rusty blanched at my words, and I pushed myself off the couch, walking over to the painting I’d been looking at before. “Your work?”

“Yeah. Long time ago. You can tell.”

Becky clucked her tongue. “Stop it, Rusty. It’s beautiful.” She looked at me. “He painted it for me when we got married.”

I studied the piece, a swirling mix of color: clouds, lightening, water, and in the middle a couple entwined in each other’s arms. Rusty had somehow encompassed all the passionate, sorrowful, joyful, freeing sensations of love. It was a masterpiece.

“It
is
beautiful,” I said.

Rusty grunted. “Whatever. Thanks.” He yawned again and rubbed a hand over his scalp. “Darn it, I was thinking there was something I wanted to ask you.”

I waited while he closed his eyes, scrunching up his face.

“Can’t think of it,” he finally said. “Brain’s not working yet.” He turned to Becky. “I say anything to you?”

She shook her head, and he shrugged. “When I remember, I’ll give you a call.”

“Sure. But hey, before I go, I wanted to tell you that I found out more from when Billy got attacked at school.”

Rusty’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah?”

“Who’s Billy?” Becky asked.

“Wolf and Mandy’s son,” I said. “He’s eleven.”

“Oh, that poor boy. I’ve been feeling so sorry for him.”

“Anyway…” Rusty said, waving his hand.

I sat down again. “He wasn’t beat up. He was held down by a gang of skinheads, who scratched a tattoo onto his arm.”

“
What
?”

“They were mad at Wolf because he refused to tattoo swastikas on them.”

Rusty paled. “So they went after
Billy
?”

“That’s terrible!” Becky said.

“Oh, my God.” Rusty put his hands up to his face and pressed on his forehead. “Oh, my God.”

“Honey, what is it?” Becky’s eyes were wide.

He looked up. “Just the other day I turned away some kids. Wanted me to do some hate work. Swastikas, racial stuff. Told them I wouldn’t do it. Took me a while to convince them.”

Becky’s hand flew to her mouth. “Our girls.”

“It couldn’t be the same group,” I said. “The ones who got Billy are in jail. Except for two of the younger ones, and the detective assures me their parents have them on a real short leash.”

Rose came back into the room, her feet slow and even so as not to spill Rusty’s very full glass of OJ. When she reached him he took the drink, set it on the coffee table, and scooped her into his arms, holding her tight.

“Daddy!” she said, giggling.

But Rusty wasn’t laughing.

Chapter Twenty

“Abe called,” Lucy said.

I looked at the mound of notes at Lucy’s elbow. She still sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand. I raised my eyebrows. “How in the world did he get through?”

“Left a message on voice mail, smarty-pants.”

“Ah. So what did he say?”

She pointed at a piece of paper stuck to the fridge with an Indian Valley Library magnet. “Gave you a name of some lady who ran Senator Farley’s election drive. Says he doesn’t know her personally, but Missy—” She looked to see if I had any reaction to the name, which I didn’t “—is good with this stuff, and after he called her last night and told her about it, she did all sorts of research and found this woman… Gloria Frizzoni. She’s probably your best bet, he said, because she abandoned ship halfway through the campaign citing philosophical differences. Maybe she’ll talk.”

“Wow. Thanks.” I eyed the phone in her hand. “Any chance I could call her?”

She smiled. “Sure. I need a break.” She stood up and stretched.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting there the entire time I was gone.”

“No. I got up once to use the bathroom.”

Shaking my head, I reached for the phone. It ran and I jumped, snatching it out of Lucy’s hand. “Royalcrest Farms.”

“Stella? Mickey Spurgeon. You have news on Wolf?”

“No. No, I’m sorry.”

He sighed. “But you wanted to talk to us?”

Not exactly. I wanted to talk to Jewel, but not with her husband in the room. “Yeah. Any chance I could come over sometime today?”

“You don’t want to just talk now?”

“I’d prefer talking in person, if that’s okay.”

“Well, sure. How about after lunch? Jewel’s at her mom’s right now.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.” I hung up and took a deep breath. I hoped I could manage with them. I didn’t really feel like getting slugged by a jealous husband.

I glanced at the message Lucy had scribbled and punched in the number Abe had left.

The phone rang three times before a woman picked it up and said hello. I explained who I was and that I was looking for information on why Farley was heading up the bill against tattoo artists and body piercers. “Any chance you could help me out?”

“Which side are you on?”

“Well, not Farley’s.”

“So you’re all for people getting hacked up and disease-ridden for a few offensive pictures on their skin?”

I bit back my first reply and said, “Excuse me, but didn’t you leave Farley’s campaign because of philosophical differences? How could that be, if he’s pushing this bill and you feel this way? I’d think you’d be all for it.”

She made a sound of disgust. “You know, most of the time I can do my job no matter what the politician believes. When it comes down to it, every one of them is about having power and using it.”

“So? How is Farley different?”

“He wanted to step off of his biggest platform because of his conscience. It would’ve ruined him, and I wasn’t going to be able to stop it. So I left.”

“His biggest platform being?”

“This bill, of course. About tattooing.”

I was silent. Stumped. “He wanted to forget about it?”

“Yes. Somehow, after I left, he got back on the bandwagon. I guess somebody flexed enough he could feel it. But it wasn’t me.”

“Do you know why?”

“Why what?”

“Why he wanted to quit?”

“Said it had turned into something he never meant it to be. Whatever. I think it was his liberal friends giving him grief. He thought more of their advice than mine, but I guess they ended up losing in the end. Now, may I know why you’re asking about this? If you’re not on his side of the bill, I suppose you fit in with his liberal friends? You probably have a tattoo yourself. A nice rose on your chest. A ring in your belly-button.”

“You know, Ms. Frizzoni, not all of us are stereotypes, no matter what you think.”

“Well—”

“Thanks for your time.” I hung up, fuming. And confused. If Farley was that wishy-washy about the bill, why couldn’t a force like Artists for Freedom change his mind? And why had he started the bill to begin with?

I glanced over at the computer where Tess sat, Smoky on her lap. Spy Fox was diving into the water in some strange frog suit, and I didn’t have it in me to interrupt. I found Lucy in the kitchen, where she was staring into the fridge.

“Luce? I’m going out to the barn to work on the computer. You going to be off the phone for a bit so I can go on-line?”

“Sure. Come on in soon for lunch, though.”

“Will do.”

Queenie met me in the parlor, impeding my progress by standing directly in front of me. I took a minute to rub her ears and back, then led her to my office, where she slumped by my feet at the desk. I reached down to lay a hand on her head while I went on-line. Was there something I’d missed about Farley? Some clue that he wasn’t happy with the bill?

I looked everywhere I could, going back over the articles I’d read the day before, even reading the articles about his family more carefully. But I found nothing. Nothing that pointed anywhere but at his support for the bill and all it stood for. Maybe that’s what Mandy had on him. She’d somehow found out he’d wavered. Someone in his campaign had leaked.

I sat back, pushing on my temples. If someone else would know about Farley and his thoughts on the bill, who would it be? Who might be privy to the same information as Mandy? The answer was quite obvious. Dennis Bergman. I found the Artists for Freedom web site and looked on the contact page. The same e-mail address I’d written to yesterday was listed, but no phone number. I shot off another note, reminding Bergman who I was and why I was interested, then searched around some more before finally finding a phone number for Bergman’s tattoo shop. I called, got no response, and left a message. I hoped he wasn’t off to some other part of the world, visiting family for Christmas.

Wanting to cover all bases, I clicked back to Farley’s web site and sent him an e-mail, saying I had information that he had wanted to call off the tattoo bill, and I was interested in his relationship with Artists for Freedom. Could we talk about it? I expected he’d ignore the message, but I could at least hope his assistant would pass it on to him, if nothing else.

Queenie sat up, her ears pointing to the ceiling.

“What is it, girl?” I asked.

She got up and pranced to the door, her tongue lolling out of her mouth happily.

“Someone here?”

I glanced out the window to see Carla Beaumont’s F350 with the Port-a-Vet closed tight on the top. So, my friend the vet who had talked to Nick and not told me had returned. I guessed her office had passed on my message, after all.

When she stepped down from the truck I rapped my knuckles on the office window so she’d know where to find me. She raised a hand and headed my way.

When the office door opened, Queenie presented Carla with a happy greeting of sniffs. Carla ruffled her fur and plopped down in my visitor chair. Queenie lay down on Carla’s right foot.

“You called?” Carla said.

“Yeah. A few days ago.”

“Sorry. I was with my folks. It was Christmas, you know.”

“I know.”

“So what’s up?”

I stared at her, my eyes narrowing.

“What?” she said. “Did I grow another head?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Tell you what?”

“That Nick called you.”

Her face flushed scarlet and she opened and closed her mouth a couple times. “No. No, I didn’t. Should I have?”

“Should you have told me that a man I lusted after was asking about me? Gee, that’s a hard one.”

She was quiet for a moment, and from her expression I could tell she wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally, she said, “I was trying to do what was best for you. You’d been through a lot, you know. Plus, Abe was here, and I thought you were working things out with him.”

“That didn’t mean I’d gotten over Nick.”

“I didn’t know you had to. He’d only been here a few days.” She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know he called, anyway? I didn’t tell anybody.” She stopped, her mouth hanging open. “You’ve talked to him. He called you?”

I fought down a laugh. “Better than that. He was
here
.”

“No way.”

“Way. He stopped in on his way home from New York.”

She goggled at me. “Tell me everything. Is he still hunkier than the Olympic swim team?”

“It was winter. I didn’t see him in a Speedo.”

“Too bad. So are you…together?”

I stopped laughing. “You tell me how that can happen, and I’ll consider it.”

“What do you mean how it can happen. It just happens.”

“I move to Virginia? He moves up here? It’s impossible.”

She sighed and shook her head. “
You’re
impossible. He obviously came here for a reason.”

“Yeah. To mess me up.”

She stood. “Give me a break. You have the most gorgeous man since Adonis coming after you and you can’t figure things out? He was pretty darn nice, too, calling to check up on you this summer.”

“He could’ve called
me
.”

“And you would’ve told him what? ‘Leave me alone, you stinking developer’?”

I stopped before saying anything else. Of course she was right. That’s probably what I would’ve said.

“So instead of yelling at me for keeping it a secret,” Carla said, “you should be thanking me for making sure you didn’t blow it.”

I let out a huff of breath and was glaring at her when the office door opened. Queenie lunged to her feet, trotting to Tess.

“Mom wants to know if you’re ready for lunch, and if Carla wants to join us,” Tess said.

Carla looked me in the eye. “Am I welcome?”

I thought about it. “I guess. Sure.”

“Then one more question.” She turned to Tess. “Did your mom cook something, or is this one of Stella’s shove-whatever-you-can-find-down-your-throat days?”

Tess made a face. “What?”

I rolled my eyes. “Never mind.”

“My mom made hot turkey sandwiches,” Tess said. “With gravy.”

Carla considered this. “Dessert?”

Tess lifted a shoulder.

“I’m sure there will be some,” I said.

“Well, okay then,” Carla said. “I’ll stay.”