Chapter Nine: Ink
Author's Note: Still with me? I am horribly sorry for making you wait.
...
"You're not nervous, are you?" Joe asked, pausing outside Black Dog Tattoo & Piercing.
Nancy glanced from the sign over the door to her own reflection in the shop window, taking in the contrast between the gothic-style lettering and her demure appearance.
"I feel conspicuous," she confessed, smoothing the skirt of her vintage sundress. "Maybe I should have dressed differently."
Joe stepped back and eyed their reflection, following her line of sight. Then he reached for her hand and gave it a gentle tug. "You look like yourself, Nan. There's nothing wrong with that."
It was, she felt, a slightly ironic thing to say to a person who was about to get fake-tattooed in order to look less like herself; but before she had time to point that out, Joe was leading her to the door.
The studio's ambience, an inviting and invigorating blend of warmth and creative energy, captivated her the moment she walked in. Nancy happily would have stood there longer, taking it all in; but Joe immediately moved forward, calling out "Sitting down on the job, Tzeka?"
Every head in the room- the young women deep in conversation behind the reception desk, the client and artist installed at one of the workstations, and the very tall, very broad man who had been reclining comfortably in a second chair, hands behind his head and elbows akimbo- turned their way.
The large man lumbered to his feet far more swiftly than Nancy had imagined possible. "Hey, brother, good to see ya!" he boomed out, clapping Joe on the back before turning toward Nancy. "And you must be our special project."
"I'm Nancy," she said, offering her hand.
"Fletcher Tzeka. It's a pleasure to meet you."
His handshake was almost painfully hearty, his gaze clear and shrewd. Nancy warmed to him immediately.
"Thank you so much for fitting me in on short notice," she said.
"Are you kidding? It's my privilege. Anything for Hardy, y'know?"
The sincerity in his voice seemed to go beyond simple bonhomie or gratitude to a good customer. Nancy wondered, for a moment, what kind of history existed between the two men; but she did not have to wonder for long, because the next moment later Fletcher turned to beckon one of his coworkers forward and exposed a familiar black, red, and white patch on the back of his vest.
Bikers Against Child Abuse, Nancy thought. That explains it! He must belong to the same chapter as Joe.
Fletcher, meanwhile, had turned back to Joe and Nancy. "Grab a seat, Hardy," he directed. "I'll be right with you. Just gotta get your young lady set up." He draped an arm around the shoulders of the young woman who had stepped forward.
"Jenelle is our newest apprentice and a real up-and-coming talent. You're in good hands with her," he told Nancy.
Jenelle wriggled free of his arm, patting her riotous curls into place and making shoo-ing gestures at Fletcher with faux exasperation. She smiled at Nancy.
"Oh my god, I am so excited to get to do this. You have no idea," she said happily. "This is so cool. Are you really a- " here she paused and lowered her voice- "detective? What kind of case are you working on? Is it dangerous? Oh, jeez, am I allowed to ask about it?"
The other young woman pushed away from the reception desk and rolled her wheelchair toward them, her phone in one hand and a massive takeout cup of coffee in the other.
"Jen! Chill!" she admonished. "Have a seat, Nancy," she added in a kinder tone.
Jenelle closed her mouth, paused, and opened it again. "Sorry. Yes. That is totally what I meant to say."
Nancy did so, stifling her private amusement. "I'm not certain what design I'd like," she admitted.
"No problem," Jenelle assured her. "I'll grab you the book. Lourdes, can you get her started with the release forms while I grab the flash portfolio?"
The receptionist gave an exaggerated sigh and pivoted back to grab a sheaf of papers off her desk. "You're a pain in the ass," she said, without any real heat behind the words.
"You love me," Jenelle called back.
Lourdes rolled her eyes and deftly maneuvered herself over to Nancy's seat. "Okay, chica, sign here, here, and...here," she said, handing over the paperwork and catching the straw of her coffee between lips painted a shade of red so dark it was nearly black.
Bess would know the name of that color and the brand, Nancy thought.
Lourdes leaned in, evidently mistaking Nancy's momentary distraction for hesitation. "It literally just says that if you die you won't sue us or come back to haunt us," she explained kindly. "And you're not gonna die. Zero risk, chick."
"Don't say zero!" Jenelle objected from across the room.
"Hey, I didn't sign anything like that," Joe complained. His voice was slightly muffled by the shirt he was pulling over his head. "If I die of ink poisoning I am absolutely coming back to haunt this place."
Sure enough, the minute Joe's bite-marked skin came into view, Fletcher let out a loud guffaw. Nancy braced herself for the inevitable teasing; but the man only looked over at her and winked.
Ignoring this byplay, Lourdes raised an eyebrow at Joe. "Try it and I'll smudge the hell out of you, Hardy. I keep sage in my desk and I'm not afraid to use it."
"Please. Sage is for amateurs. If I haunt a place, you'll need a minimum of two ordained priests to exorcise me," Joe scoffed.
He was only playing, indulging in banter for the fun of it, but Nancy could see real flirtation in Lourdes' body language. Joe had that effect on women. It never meant anything to him; but that did not mean that Nancy enjoyed watching it happen, and she was mildly relieved when Jenelle interrupted.
"Guys, where's the flash book?"
"I thought Mal had it," Lourdes offered.
The other artist lay down his tattoo gun, wiped away a streak of blood and ink from his client's back, and shook his head. "Nope."
"Try out front," Fletcher suggested. He was running a disposable razor across Joe's skin in swift, practiced strokes.
"Standard procedure," Lourdes said, addressing Nancy this time. "It just, like, cleans up the area."
Nancy nodded, still watching. She had known, of course, that getting a tattoo was more than a matter of simply sitting down and getting jabbed with a needle. Now she wished she had taken the time to research the process.
"Do you know what you want?" Lourdes asked, taking another sip of coffee.
"Let her look first!" Jenelle chided. She had returned with a small binder, which she handed to Nancy.
"I am! I just meant, is this gonna be totally random, or are you, like, crafting an image?"
Jenelle peered over Nancy's shoulder and, before she could reply, reached in to tap an ornate Gothic cross twined with skulls and roses.
"That one?"
"Uh-uh. No way is that her look," Lourdes declared.
"Isn't that the point?" Jenelle countered. She turned to Nancy. "Is this," she said, with a gesture which encompassed Nancy's entire body, "what you're wearing, is this really you?"
The question was more insightful than Nancy had expected from bubbly, chatty Jenelle. She looked at the girl again, taking in the softness of her curls and her pink t-shirt, the youthfulness of the gold ring looping one nostril and the Disney princesses on her watchband, and realized that every detail of the way this young woman presented herself had been curated to highlight those characteristics. In a way, this was Jenelle's undercover identity. Nancy thought of her own father, who went off to work every morning looking distinguished and competent in his impeccable suits and ties- about Joe's disarming appearance and flirtatious manner- about herself, and the way she had hesitated outside only minutes ago, feeling self-conscious about her own appearance.
Everyone is "crafting an image," she thought, echoing Lourdes's phrase. Every day, in every new context, most of us do adapt the way we present ourselves.
Nancy smoothed the skirt of her dress again, in gratitude this time rather than discomfort. "Yes," she said, thoughtfully. "This is really me."
Joe spoke up again. "The key to a believable undercover persona is moderation," he said, craning his neck to look at them around Fletcher.
"Your boy 'bout to give us a TED Talk," Lourdes teased.
"You don't want to look like you're wearing a costume," he went on. "You want to be yourself, with minor variations."
Jenelle flipped a few pages and poked the book again. "That one," she said decisively.
Nancy looked. Lourdes looked. They both nodded.
"That one," Nancy agreed.
Several hours later, in the privacy of their bedroom, Nancy unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor.
Everyone- Jen, Fletcher, Mal, even Lourdes- had assured her that once set, the ink would last for at least two weeks. Nevertheless, when she ran a fingertip along the delicate Celtic knotwork bracelet curling around her right forearm, she did so gingerly, half-worried that the ink would smear.
It did not.
Of course it didn't, she chided herself, feeling foolish. She touched it again, more firmly this time. Turned her back to the mirror, craning her neck to examine the crescent moon nestling between her scapulae. Raised her arm to inspect the larger piece- an ethereal doe crowned with wildflowers- adorning her ribcage. She was not sure which was more mesmerizing: the unfamiliar swirls of ink against her pale skin, or the thrill of being someone new.
"Nan?" Joe called suddenly from the other room. "George just pulled in."
"Be right there!"
Slightly disoriented by the abrupt shift back into her everyday self, Nancy pulled her dress into place and reached for the zipper, which promptly jammed.
"Damn!" she hissed impatiently. She could hear George and Joe exchanging greetings. If George is here, she must have something big to report, she thought; and if George has something big to report, why am I wasting my time wrestling with my zipper?
"Ugh!" Nancy muttered aloud, giving the thing one last tug. "Never mind. It's just George," she said, and hurried impatiently out into the living room.
"Hi!" she called.
George turned and her gaze faltered, shifting from Joe, who was shirtless, to Nancy, who was clutching her unzipped dress to her chest. "O-okay," she said slowly. "I'm clearly interrupting something here. I'll go."
"Don't!" Nancy said quickly.
"It's not what it looks like," Joe added. "Need a hand, Nan?"
"Please." Nancy turned her back gratefully toward Joe. "We just got home, and I was checking out my new artwork," she explained to George as Joe's deft hands coaxed her zipper up its track. She held out her arm. "Pretty realistic, isn't it?"
"Not bad," was George's verdict. "What else do you have? Don't tell me you got one of those hipster underboob flowery chandelier things."
"No, it's one of those hipster deer and flower things," Nancy said, patting her side. "Oh, and this," she added, turning and pulling her hair over one shoulder to display the crescent moon.
"I like it. It's very witchy."
"Then why are you laughing?" Nancy demanded, turning back around.
"Because I'm trying to picture Nancy Drew topless in a tattoo parlor, and it's hilarious. Can you imagine what your dad would say? Or Hannah?" George chuckled.
"They don't need to know!" Nancy said, alarmed. Inwardly, she winced. Now I sound like Chet. Why are we all hiding things from our parents these days?
"Don't worry, I'll leave it out of our daily chat."
"I had no idea you and Carson were so close," Joe commented.
"Oh, yeah, we're tight. We're like this," George teased, holding up a hand with the index and middle fingers crossed in illustration. Then her face grew serious. "I've got some stuff to report," she said, heading for the couch.
"I figured as much," Nancy said.
"Yeah." George sat back, looking thoughtful. "So, I went to the motel. Where's Joe? Should he sit in on this?"
Nancy looked around. Joe had faded away discreetly, doubtless to give George the space to process her thoughts on the matter.
"No, I can fill him in," she said, turning back to George.
"Okay." George pulled her feet closer to herself, giving Nancy enough space to sit down. "So, it wasn't that weird dude from before working the desk. It was a woman. Medium blonde, mid-40s? Short hair, long nails, looked bored as hell."
She paused to send a call to voicemail.
"Do you need to take that?" Nancy asked.
George shoved the phone back into her pocket. "Nope. Anyway, I showed her a picture of Tom, and you should've seen her face. It was freaking hilarious. She went from practically yawning in my face to totally pissed off. I mean she actually stood up and jabbed her finger at me and screamed in my face."
"What? Why?" Nancy was both figuratively and literally on the edge of her seat, now.
"She said...let me get this right." George sat up straight and twisted her face into an exaggerated scowl. " 'If that smug bastard thinks he can sue us and get anywhere, he's wasting his goddamn time, and you can tell him I said so!' "
George dropped out of character, grinning. "So I finally get her calmed down, right, enough to explain, at least, and it turns out that Tommy boy used to be a regular patron."
"No," Nancy breathed.
"Oh, yes. He had an arrangement with her where he'd slip her a little extra for a really clean bed. Like, not just the sheets changed, but the duvet and everything. But then, the last time he was there, he came right back to the desk complaining about the room not being clean. She got offended, because I guess she had personally checked it before he arrived, and he was offended and told her he'd take his business elsewhere, and apparently the woman he was with got involved too and threatened to sue for who the hell knows what. Mental trauma? Germs? The desk lady called her a 'snooty bitch.' " George stopped. "'You look like you're about to explode. Go on, ask your questions."
"How long ago was this? Who was the woman? Was it the same woman every time? How many times did he go there? Did she have records, credit card information, reservations on file, anything like that?" Nancy blurted out.
"I never got a chance to snoop, and she wouldn't give me anything specific. Got suspicious when I started asking more specific questions. Understandable, but annoying." George shrugged. "All I've got is that this was approximately five years ago, heavy on the approximate, so there's no telling whether they were married then or not. She described the woman as tan and blonde."
"So it could have been Bess."
"Could've been."
They were silent a moment, digesting this. Then Nancy sighed.
"It's a lead, at least."
George made a noncommittal noise in response. There was another pause.
"What if it was a wig?" Nancy asked finally.
"Why do you always have to complicate things?" George objected, half-laughing. "You could just accept it and say thank you."
"Thank you," Nancy said obediently.
George stretched, relaxed, and suddenly snorted. "Either way, he certainly has a type, doesn't he?"
"Mm-hmm," Nancy agreed. "Assertive blondes!"
"I guess it's good to know what you want."
There it was: the opening for which Nancy had been waiting. "Do you not know what you want?" she asked, gently. "Is that why you're ignoring Burt's calls?"
She could tell that George was struggling, and half expected a flippant response. But after a moment George huffed out a sigh and said "I'm ignoring his calls because I don't want to have sex with him."
"I know it's been awhile since I went on a first date, but don't they usually want to, I don't know, get coffee, or watch a baseball game?" Nancy said.
George sighed again and pushed her fingers through her already-tousled dark hair, making the curls and waves stand out in all directions. "Sure, but eventually they always want to do stuff I don't want to do, and that's the end of it. It's humiliating. It's like they're all out there thinking 'if I can't put my dick in it, why waste my time?' "
"Is that what happened with you two back then?"
"No," George admitted grudgingly. "He never pushed it. We were just kids. We knew we were both leaving for basic training soon and neither of us wanted to do the long-distance thing, so we broke up."
"So you never told him- "
"No. And that's why I can't ever go out with him." George grabbed a throw pillow and fidgeted with it, turning it over in her hands, tracing the seams. "He's a friend, Nance. I don't want him to turn into just another creep who made me feel like a defective sex toy."
"As long as you don't give him a chance, he can't disappoint you."
"Right."
"What if he doesn't disappoint you?"
George gave the pillow an especially aggressive spin. "I'll still disappoint him, either way."
"I think you might be blowing it all out of proportion- "
"That's what she said," George mumbled.
Nancy rolled her eyes. "Does that joke even work there?"
"I don't know. I've never blown anything, in proportion or out," George joked. Then she grew serious again. "Sometimes I think I might, like...with the right person, I mean, if I trusted them..."
"You might be open to trying things."
George nodded. "Yeah. But I can't expect anyone to be satisfied in a relationship like that, and it's fine. It's easier to be single and focus on my other shit. Work. Family. So yeah, I'm not taking his calls."
"May I offer my perspective?" Nancy waited for her friend's nod before continuing. "I think Burt is a decent person. If you're interested in him at all, tell him up front what you just told me, and see where things go from there."
"I should've guessed your advice was going to be be honest," George grumbled, tossing the pillow at Nancy.
Nancy tossed it right back. "Find a way, or make one, Fayne."
George laughed, a real, tension-releasing laugh. "Fair enough, Drew." She stood up, clearly done with this conversation. "Tell me about your case," she said.
"I'll fill you in, if you'll help me pack," Nancy returned. "We're leaving tomorrow and I'm due to meet Hannah for a late lunch soon."
"Deal," George agreed. "Is that where Joe disappeared to?"
"I'm not sure," Nancy said, leading the way into Frank's old bedroom, where they now stored their luggage and many of their more niche items of clothing.
"It is indeed where Joe disappeared to," Joe announced, taking a step back from the open closet. "Joe has been staring into this closet for ten minutes, wondering who he is."
"Joe can stop talking in the third person, because Joe is creeping me out a little," George retorted.
Joe grinned. "Maybe that's who I am now. Maybe I'm a creepy dude who speaks in the third person."
"Do I have veto power?" Nancy inquired.
"No, I think you have to get a majority vote," he said.
"Okay, let me call Frank," she teased.
"I already did. He's coming over to pack some stuff and hash out our story," Joe said, growing serious.
"Nancy's got hers all set," George remarked. "Though I think she should've gotten a few piercings while you were there this morning, to really sell the character."
Nancy touched her simple studs self-consciously. "I wanted to get a second hole done years ago, when you got yours, George, but Hannah wouldn't let me, and I suppose I just outgrew the impulse."
"I remember. Hannah thought it would make you look cheap. Not that she came out and said it."
"Hannah is always tactful," Nancy said fondly.
"Did you know that nipple piercing was a fad in Victorian-era Paris?" Joe said. "Not that I'm suggesting you get your nipples pierced," he added hastily. "Unless you want to, in which case go for it, and I promise I won't tell Hannah."
Nancy laughed, and George made a face of disgust. "Can we not talk about Nancy's nipples? Let's see your new ink, Little Hardy."
Joe obligingly peeled away the bandage covering his new tattoo, which was a simple rose and dagger design placed just above the Beowulf quotation on his chest.
"I'll re-bandage it after Frank sees," he said, catching Nancy's look of concern.
"Very cool. Very retro," George commented.
"It's a scaled-back version of one my grandfather had," Joe offered by way of explanation. Nancy knew the image held much more meaning than that, to him. It was not only a tribute to his grandfather, but a symbol of balance: of love and loss, life and death, intention and fate. But Joe did not delve into any of that now. Instead he held out his left arm to show off the copperhead coiled there. "I got this today, too, courtesy of Nancy."
"He let me draw on him while I was waiting for Fletcher to finish up the real tattoo," Nancy explained, studying her work with a critical eye. "I'm glad it's not permanent. I'm not happy with the snake's eye."
"Looks good to me," George declared. "All right. Which one is your suitcase, Nance?"
"I'll grab it," Nancy said.
. . . . . . . . . .
Over the years, both Nancy and the Hardys had curated large and varied collections of clothing and accessories; but where Nancy's approach to her specialized items was informal, even occasionally incorporating pieces into her regular wardrobe, Frank and Joe relied on a more formal system of labeled storage boxes containing the building blocks of different personas. So now, while Nancy and George began sifting through Nancy's clothes and jewelry and pulling out anything that lined up with her intended bohemian look, Joe set to work reading the labels on his boxes and occasionally pulling one out for consideration.
"Tell me about where you're going," George prompted, tossing Nancy a crocheted top which would not have looked out of place at Woodstock.
"We are going," said Nancy, inspecting the shirt with a critical eye, "to the former Camp Sunshine, site of a 1970s missing persons case- "
"Right," George put in. "That body they just found."
Nancy nodded and continued. "And current site of Caldwell House Resort and Campgrounds."
George whistled. "From hippie to pretentious? I'm not sure that's an improvement."
"They've put a lot of work into changing the place's image," Nancy agreed. "The new owner bought the adjoining property, a historic mansion, and refurbished it as a bed and breakfast. I suppose that's the resort part," she said thoughtfully, glancing at Joe for confirmation.
"There's a dining room, a stable, a pool, I think we saw a gym on the website," he said. "That's the resort side. Then there's the campground, which has cabins or campsites to rent, firepits, a picnic area, a lake...hey, don't roll your eyes at me, Fayne. I know I sound like a brochure right now."
"It's not that," George said, smirking. "I just can't take you seriously while you're dressed like a low-budget Crocodile Dundee."
"Damn. I was going for Indiana Jones."
Nancy picked up a pair of sandals. "Anyway," she said, "they've been dealing with some vandalism and petty theft on the campground side of things."
"And they want us to put a stop to it before it escalates and draws bad press," Joe concluded. "Nan also thinks there might be some connection to the missing girls."
"Yeah, that figures. But you're not convinced," George guessed.
"I'm keeping an open mind."
"My money's on a disgruntled employee," Frank said, walking into the room unexpectedly. He laughed at the surprised looks on everyone's faces. "Two private detectives and a former soldier, and none of you heard me coming? You're losing your edge."
Nancy shook her head, refusing to be baited. "Hi, Frank."
"Hi." He flicked the hat off his brother's head. "You're not going as Indy. It's not a costume party and anyway, I'd make a terrible Short Round."
Joe collected the hat, looking triumphant. "Ha. Low-budget Crocodile Dundee, my ass!"
Ignoring the friendly bickering which ensued between George and Joe, Nancy looked at Frank. "I've been thinking about our story," she told him, "and I think siblings might be a good cover."
Frank made a wry face.
"What's wrong?" Nancy asked.
"Can you and Joe pull off a brother-sister vibe? You're very...physical."
"You're right," Nancy said, with exaggerated surprise. "I should have remembered that we can't control ourselves at all, ever. We're actually having sex right now. It's all we do, really."
Frank had the good grace to look apologetic. "I don't have a problem with your relationship. I only meant that the last thing we need is to inspire incest-based gossip."
"I understand your concerns," Nancy said carefully, trying to suppress her annoyance. "I'm sorry, Frank. I shouldn't have reacted that way. But honestly, when have you ever known me or Joe to be anything less than professional?"
"I trust you, but I have to think realistically."
"Realistically," Nancy repeated, giving the word just a touch of emphasis, "we need to know each other well enough to share a cabin, and the easiest way to handle that would be to go as siblings."
"What about cousins?" Joe suggested suddenly. Nancy looked his way, as did Frank, and the tension between them evaporated.
"Do I absolutely have to be related to him?" Frank quipped, laughing.
Nancy stepped forward and adjusted the flower Joe had clipped into his hair before letting her gaze travel down his body. He was wearing a bustier she had once worn undercover in a strip club, a sequined hip scarf over his jeans, and a pair of beat-up cowboy boots.
"I told him it's the wrong cup size," George joked.
"Yeah, that's the only problem with this outfit," Frank retorted. "Get serious, Joe."
"I am serious. Cousins," he said.
"I like it," Nancy said. "The idea, not the lingerie."
She turned back toward Frank, who nodded somewhat reluctantly. "Cousins it is."
"Now," said George, briskly. "Who wants to explain the chain mail shirt hanging in the closet?"
Both Hardys' faces lit up.
"I wondered where that ended up!" Frank said eagerly.
After that, it was smooth sailing. Frank admired their new tattoos, both permanent and temporary, but declined any temporary body art of his own. He and Joe settled down to their packing, as did Nancy and George. It was not long before Nancy was zipping up her suitcase and George was stretching and fidgeting in a way that meant she was ready to leave.
"Thanks for the help," Nancy told her, placing her suitcase beside the door. "I couldn't have finished so quickly without you."
"No problem." George shoved her hands into her pockets and hesitated a moment. "I'm thinking of delaying my studio re-opening," she confessed.
"Is it not ready? Do you need help?" Nancy asked.
George shook her head. "No, the place is good to go, but somebody's got to be around to babysit Bess."
Nancy's conscience prickled uncomfortably. "Maybe I should tell the boys to go ahead and leave me behind," she said. "I can help take care of her."
"Nance. I've got this. Text me further instructions for the Tom investigation, okay? I'm happy to do the legwork on that one while you go snooping around Snooty House Resort."
Nancy smiled. "Will do. Thanks again, George."
George waved this aside. "Be safe. Talk soon."
With that, she was gone.
I'd better go, too, Nancy realized. Hannah will be expecting me.
In the spare room, Frank was methodically replacing boxes into the closet while Joe folded shirts. He had replaced the bustier with a leather jacket, worn to a soft patina and devoid of any insignia.
"Going to Hannah's?" he said, looking up at Nancy. "Tell her I said hi."
She nodded and leaned in to kiss him. "I'll tell her," she said, breathing in the faint smell of leather and cigarette smoke which clung to the jacket- a scent which belonged to a version of Joe she had known years ago, and which was at once familiar and strange. His kiss, at least, was wholly and reassuringly familiar.
"I'm taking the bike over to Swift & Morton soon," he reminded her. "I'll probably be back around the same time you are."
Nancy nodded again. "Okay. See you later, then. And I'll see you tomorrow, Frank."
The dark-haired man looked up from the box he was re-packing long enough to give her a wave and an automatic "Drive safe."
"Of course," Nancy promised.
It was the work of a moment to collect her phone and purse; and then, like George before her, she was gone.