The hallway led to a kitchen that made me want to bust out my apron and cook up a week’s worth of meals for Oliver. Aside from the beautiful antique wood stove, the cooking area had been modernized too and boasted everything a food lover could wish for—except for the disappointing absence of a decent espresso machine. It took me a minute to drag my eyes away to focus them on Maria.
She was so short I wondered how she could use the kitchen counters comfortably, but authority oozed from every inch of her small frame.
She’d kick my ass in a brawl.
Just as well I wasn’t supposed to be protecting Connor from fisticuffs with stout little women.
Maria’s bright floral dress was perfectly pressed, her apron straight, and her shoes polished. Her age was difficult to determine, though the silver threading through her black hair and the wisdom in her sharp eyes made me place her somewhere in her fifties. I liked her at once.
“Señorita, I hope you are hungry,” she said. My stomach confirmed my earlier theory by rumbling loudly, and she looked pleased. “Good.”
She led us to the dining table where fruit, yogurt, muesli, baguettes, and cream cheese were laid out in an orderly fashion.
In fact, everything I’d seen of the house was laid out in an orderly fashion, and this, along with Connor’s empty desk in his Downtown office, was making me wonder if he was a neat freak.
“These are only the cold options,” Maria said. “I make you whatever you like, toasted baguette or croissant with smoked salmon and avocado, prosciutto and Brie, or blue cheese, fig and walnuts. You may also like waffles, French toast, bacon, or eggs done any way. Anything you want, I do. Now to begin, you would like freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee, or tea?”
While she spoke, Connor pulled out a chair for me and tucked me in before seating himself. How kind he was in front of a third party.
“Thank you, Maria,” he said. “I’d love a coffee and a glass of orange juice.”
“Orange juice would be wonderful,” I agreed, wishing again that I was back in Adelaide. I had discovered early on that most Americans don’t know how real coffee should taste, and the drip filter machine I’d spied in the kitchen had ruined any hope of Connor being different.
Maria bustled out of the room, leaving me and Connor alone. He regarded me hungrily. Probably because he couldn’t eat a thing until I did.
I cleared my throat. “So, what would you like to eat first… schnookums?”
His lips compressed, but he passed me the muesli and yogurt. I taste tested them for harmful substances with care, ignoring his long fingers tapping out his impatience on the table.
“The more ingredients a meal has, the more complex it is to test,” I explained. Maybe he’d be less impatient if he had more realistic expectations.
He grunted, which I took as an acknowledgment, and I slid the bowl his way. He grabbed my hand instead. Maria was coming back, so I left it wrapped in his.
As she served our drinks, Connor drew me closer and traced the curve of my arm with his fingers.
I told myself the goosebumps his touch elicited were from discomfort.
“Have you decided what you want?” Maria asked.
I was about to request a toasted croissant with butter to keep testing simple, but Connor jumped in first.
“Actually, Maria, this gorgeous creature of mine couldn’t make up her mind”—he surveyed me fondly—“so we’ll have one of each of the baguettes you mentioned, to share, and finish with the waffles.”
I wasn’t sure how he managed to look so smug without changing his expression, but I realized by calling him schnookums I’d started a war. Not smart when I needed the job so badly. But my less rational side couldn’t resist the chance to knock a condescending person down a peg or two.
Besides I could think of worse punishments than having to eat a bunch of baguettes.
I kicked off with the coffee so I could wash the taste away afterward with orange juice. Even without spotting the machine in the kitchen, I would’ve known immediately that the coffee was the automatic drip variety. No crema. Bitter, dirty dishwater aroma. Resigned, I sniffed it, swished it around my mouth far longer than I wanted to, and gulped it down.
“You know, your nose wrinkles when you do that,” Connor said.
“At least I didn’t spit it back into the cup.”
He raised an eyebrow a fraction. “Don’t like coffee?”
I slid the offending mug his way. “This isn’t coffee.”
He took a long drink and set it down with an exhale of appreciation. “Whatever you say, sweetheart. Start eating.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. All was wonderful until I sampled the blue cheese. It was tart and delicious, but I could also taste an astringent, woodsmoke flavor I recognized as Fenella, a potent poison with symptoms that mimic severe intoxication. I spat the morsel into a napkin and tried to recall how much you had to consume before it became dangerous.
My brain felt woozy.
“Don’t eat the blue cheese,” I told Connor, who’d grown a second head since I’d last looked at him. I poked at one of his noses but missed and giggled when my finger hit my leg instead. Both heads wore identical worried expressions, and it occurred to me that I was supposed to alert the Taste Society to the poison so they could send out a rescue and cleanup team if necessary. I also remembered I’d forgotten to floss last night. I activated the microphone in my ring by twisting it as they’d taught us. “Feeeeneeeeella,” I crooned into it.
Maybe I’d missed my life’s purpose. I could have been a country singer. I could have been a somebody.
The world spun, and a three-headed monster was standing over me. I waved at it. Then I decided to take a nap.
3
I woke with the urge to vomit and grasped around wildly for a container. Finding none, I jumped up and raced to the nearest door, praying I would find a bathroom behind it. Instead, I saw the hallway that was as wide as my bedroom. Cursing its width with every step, I rushed across it to the next door. No toilet. Halfway to the next door, I knew I wasn’t going to make it and grabbed a vase that decorated a nearby shelf.
After hurling several times, I sank down on the cool floor and rested my back against the wall. It was in this position, with the vomit-filled vase between my legs, that Connor found me.
For the first time that day, I was grateful for his acting abilities. He hid his disgust well. In fact, he almost looked happy to see me.
“I see you’ve acquainted yourself with my great-great-grandmother’s betrothal vase.”
I groaned and slumped down farther.
“It’s all right. I heard she was a harpy anyway.” He came over and helped me to my feet, both of us careful not to touch the vase. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
He half carried me to the room I’d rushed from minutes earlier. My body felt so weak, I couldn’t believe I’d covered the distance alone.
“Stupidly wide hallway,” I grumbled to myself.
Connor tucked me into bed. “I hate to bring this up, but in case there’s a next time, the bathroom’s just through there.” He pointed to the only other door in the room.
I groaned again. Apparently I’d picked the wrong door as well as the wrong job.
“Get some rest. You should feel better in an hour or two.”
The second time I woke, it was to the sound of my phone ringing. I answered it groggily.
“Am I speaking with Ms. Avery?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good. It’s Samantha Nielson from Platypus Lending here.”
Platypus Lending Inc. was the front for the loan shark. The one I owed over a hundred grand.
When I’d made a lifelong commitment to Stefan Valentino (a.k.a. Steve or Stevo), I hadn’t expected it to be a year living together and the rest of my life paying for it.
When we were newlyweds, he’d convinced me to get a two-hundred-grand loan to invest in some “sure thing” stocks so we could buy a house. Yep, stupi
d. In my defense, he didn’t tell me he was borrowing the money from a shady lending company. Plus, he’d distracted me by feeding me pasta while wearing only an apron.
The stock market crashed, Steve figured he’d pay off his half of the debt a lot quicker if we got divorced, and I couldn’t afford the overhead on my newly opened coffee shop while servicing my share of the loan. Two months later, I found myself selling muffins for minimum wage, with only a battered couch, a stick blender, and an angry loan shark to call my own. I hadn’t even managed to get Steve’s family pasta recipe out of the whole ordeal.
“Are you aware you haven’t made any compulsory payments for nine months?” the friendly voice of my not-so-friendly lending company asked.
“Did you say you were after Ms. Avery? I thought you said Ms.—”
“I know it’s you, Ms. Avery. I recognize your voice from all the other times I’ve had to chase you up on this.”
“Uh, you must be mistaken. I don’t sound like myself right now because I have a cold.” I wondered whether I could pull off a realistic sounding sneeze.
“Do I need to send someone to go and check this number with your mother again? Perhaps we should tell her why we’re so anxious to get in contact with you.”
I grimaced. “Okay, you got me. But I can explain.”
“Ms. Avery, I hope you realize that leaving the country does not exempt you from repaying your debts. We do have legal means to pursue you, even in the United States.”
And not-so-legal means too. It was a good sign she hadn’t mentioned those. Then again, an experienced criminal organization would be smart enough not to make illegal threats over the phone. “I know. I wasn’t trying to get out of paying, I—”
“Glad to hear it, Ms. Avery.”
I hauled myself into a sitting position and unclenched my teeth with difficulty. “Ms. Nielson, you will also be glad to hear that I’ve just completed training for a much higher paying job that will allow me to repay you instead of going backward.”
With their ludicrous fifteen percent interest rate, my bakery job’s minimum wage hadn’t even covered the interest payments—let alone made a dent in the loan itself. My debt had climbed from $100,000 to $105,000, and Platypus Lending sent some muscle around to motivate me. So when the Taste Society invited me to apply for a classified position that paid a hundred grand a year from the day of the first assignment, it seemed like a no-brainer. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know anything close to the truth about the job. Or the Taste Society. In fact, I still didn’t know much about the Taste Society.
But at least I knew when my first paycheck would be. “My salary started yesterday, so I’ll be able to pay back most of the outstanding payments in just two weeks.”
“I’m happy you’re bettering your circumstances, Ms. Avery, but we can’t afford to wait around for you to sort your life out.”
“It’s fourteen days.”
“It’s nine and a half months, and you said you’ll only be able to repay most of the outstanding amount. Can’t you organize an advanced paycheck?”
“I’m afraid I can’t, Ms. Nielson.”
“Then I’m afraid, Ms. Avery, that late penalties will apply.”
“Fine!” I shrieked. “Then I’m afraid I have to go.”
“It was nice speaking with you, Ms. Avery. Have a lovely day, and don’t forget to forward us your new address.”
I hung up before I could say something I’d regret. While I hoped “late penalties” wasn’t code for broken bones, I had a bad feeling it might be. No way was I giving them my address.
I shoved the thought down into the handy little hole inside of me to keep my other fears company and slumped back against the cushions. It was then I noticed how large the bed was. A chill crept over me. Surely I wasn’t in Connor’s own bed? I looked around. The room was like the rest of the house I’d seen so far: white walls, minimal but tasteful furniture, and no decoration beyond an abstract oil painting and three floating hardwood shelves that held a single ornament each. No help there. I sniffed one of the pillows. It was definitely Connor’s. And my breath definitely smelt like vomit.
I hauled myself into the bathroom and spent a few moments trying to find the shower. It was only when I stumbled down a small step that I realized the shower area was one whole side of the room, with no glass or curtain to divide it. There were also no taps or a shower head that I could see, but I pushed some buttons and water began pouring out of the ceiling. I undressed and hunted around for a new toothbrush. Not finding one, I squeezed toothpaste into my mouth, stepped under the hot water, and used a finger to scrub my teeth.
I wanted to keep my head dry because I didn’t have any makeup or hair products with me, but it was near impossible with the flow coming straight from the ceiling. In a matter of minutes, my hair was wet enough that it was starting to kink, even with the expensive serum. At least I managed to keep my face out of the worst of it. After washing the rest of me with whatever I found in the shower, I felt a hundred times better.
Except that I didn’t have any spare underwear.
It was a tough choice between going free as an eagle, or borrowing a pair of Connor’s, but I figured I’d feel marginally less uncomfortable wearing his underwear than none at all. Especially in a skirt.
Serves him right for putting me in his bedroom, I thought as I rummaged through his underthings. He must have had half a dozen guest rooms in the house he could’ve stashed me in.
His briefs were folded and arranged by color. Definitely a neat freak. If anyone who saw Connor’s underwear drawer also saw the shopping bags still piled in the middle of my bedroom floor, they’d know immediately our pretend relationship was doomed.
Fully dressed save for my heels, which seemed like too much effort, I left the bedroom and entered the grand hallway once more. I was relieved to see someone had taken the vase away.
“Hello?” I called. “Is anyone here?”
I didn’t get a response, so I wandered my way into the kitchen. I was feeling peckish, but the thought of blue cheese made my stomach churn. Training had taught me this would fade soon enough. We’d had to taste every relevant poison, by itself and in a variety of foods, to memorize the subtleties of its unique scent and flavor. We’d also had to forgo the antidote so we’d be able to recognize the distinctive symptoms. Some things can’t be learned by textbook.
Some things can only be learned by subjecting yourself to eight months of stomach cramps, projectile vomiting, and diarrhea.
The average person wouldn’t survive this teaching method, but all Shade trainees have the rare gene mutation PSH337PRS, which increases resistance to toxic substances.
The Taste Society didn’t tell us how they got ahold of this confidential genetic information that we’d never knowingly been tested for (well, I had some idea, but mine was a unique case). Some of us had speculated about it during training and decided it probably involved underhanded dealings with pathology labs all over the world—paying them to test all blood samples for the gene mutation in addition to whatever blood work had actually been requested. That would explain the secrecy around it.
Shades were also supposed to have above-average senses of taste and smell to assist our identification abilities. I figured we must be chosen for our above-average skills in screwing up our lives as well. Desperation was at least as important as the gene mutation in this line of work.
Yet none of that had harmed my appetite. I considered rummaging through the fridge, but knowing I might be expected to test lunch soon, I decided to find Maria or Connor first.
Okay, I was also nosy.
The house was huge, so I took a strategic approach, beginning at the front door and looking in every room I came across. Each one was tastefully outfitted in Connor’s uncluttered, ordered style. In fact, I didn’t spot a single item out of place, and it wasn’t for want of trying.
I was peering into what had to be his office, and noting with amusement that this desk, too, he
ld only a MacBook Pro, when he came up behind me.
“Looking for something?”
I spun around, refusing to be embarrassed. “You, actually. Is it time for lunch?”
He was a lot taller when I wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“Yes. We’ll be eating here again.”
“Have you, uh, reported the poisoning attempt?”
Taste Society policy was to have a doctor monitor any Shade exposed to a psychoactive or harmful substance, no matter how low-risk the drug, or how little they’d ingested. Just in case. I hadn’t been in any danger from the Fenella I’d spat out, but I was wondering if the microphone on my ring was broken.
“Let’s talk about that over lunch. There’s been a change of plans.” He strode away, assuming I’d follow.
I followed, but not before sneaking a last peek at the floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets in his office. I bet every one of them was locked.
“Why did you put me in your bedroom?” I asked as I trailed him down the hallway. “You have at least four other bedrooms here.”
He answered without turning. “You’re supposed to be my girlfriend. Try to remember that.”
“While we’re on the subject, when I was looking for you, I noticed every room was spotless…”
“Yes?”
“So, I was wondering… It’s nothing to be ashamed of or anything, but I feel like I should know the truth if I’m supposed to be your girlfriend.”
“Spit it out.”
“Do you have obsessive compulsive disorder?”
“No.” He pulled my seat out for me and tucked me in again. “I just like order.”
As an experiment, I moved one of the salt shakers on the table a smidgen to the left.
Connor looked at me, unimpressed, but made no move to correct it. “Maria will bring us hamburgers shortly.”
Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set Page 3
