Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set

by Chelsea Field

  Connor cut me off. “It’s believable, and they won’t be making any promises.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.” I felt sick. What had I started? And who was the man next to me that he could leverage a family’s tragedy so coldly? Did the Taste Society share his attitude?

  Connor didn’t respond for a long minute. “Maybe you need to trust that I have ethics too.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He exhaled slowly through his nose. “It means that if Juan doesn’t turn out to be involved, and they’re struggling to finance Rosa’s treatment, they’ll receive an anonymous donation, okay? Now back off and let me try to save Dana’s life. It’s not your job to question how I do mine.”

  I shut my mouth. For a moment, I’d forgotten this was about saving Dana. Where did my morals fit into that? Did the ends justify the means when no real harm was done and a life was at stake? I didn’t know. I gave up on figuring it out and watched the houses and blocks grow in size as we traveled to Colette’s place in Larchmont.

  Colette’s contemporary home, with its white rendered facade, charcoal tiled roof, and timber French doors, wasn’t a mansion, but it was easily worth seven figures. How could she afford it on a maid’s wage?

  My mind answered the puzzle by putting “French” and “maid” together in a new light. Did she provide services other than those I first assumed? It was with this idea in my head that I watched Colette open the door.

  As per her photo in the file, her hair and makeup were flawless. Her large blue eyes and pale pink lipstick softened the coiffed perfection and lent a certain innocence to her look.

  She smiled coquettishly at Connor, shattering the illusion of innocence, before turning to give me a hard once-over.

  “How can I help you?” she asked in a sophisticated French accent, which made my Australian one sound rough and crude. Her come-hither gaze was back on Connor, as if I’d ceased to exist.

  Connor introduced us both, name-dropping Josh Summers as usual, and she invited us inside.

  As we followed her through the elegantly appointed home, Connor grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear. “Play the jealous girlfriend, then find an excuse to leave. She might talk more if she views me as a potential conquest.”

  This was a good chance to prove I could act, so I wrapped myself around his arm and switched my tone to whiny. “Schnookums, why do you always have to work on our days together?”

  “I’m sorry, gorgeous, but criminals don’t run on schedule. And I thought we agreed that you’d stop calling me schnookums.”

  Our voices were pitched low, but I was certain Colette could hear us and was paying attention. The movement of her hips seemed more exaggerated than it was several steps ago. I glared at her shapely behind while plotting my next line.

  She led us to a sitting room that held a cream sofa, three eclectic, yet perfectly harmonized, high-backed chairs, and a neutral-toned herringbone rug that tied them all together. Colette took the sofa, so Connor and I had to sit apart from one another.

  The high-backed chairs might be pretty, but they weren’t comfortable.

  I looked around. There were two copper floor lamps, a copper and glass coffee table, as well as three copper vases and an ornate mirror that graced the mantel. The place was spotless too. Did she clean it herself or hire a cheaper maid to do it for her? Either way, Connor and Colette would do well together. That reminded me, I had the part of jealous girlfriend to play.

  “How do you afford this on a maid’s salary?” I blurted out.

  Connor reached over from his chair and gave my hand a hard squeeze while sharing an apologetic glance with Colette. “Please forgive my girlfriend’s tactlessness.”

  “Oh no, that’s quite all right,” Colette said, smiling at me with a few too many teeth. “Let’s just say that my employers are extremely generous.”

  She angled her body so that Connor would get the best view. He admired it.

  “Now, can I offer you any refreshments?”

  My acting role overruled my grumbling stomach. “No, thanks,” I said hastily.

  Connor dragged his eyes off Colette to look at me. “Sweetheart, if you don’t want anything, maybe you should go to the car and phone your friend back?”

  I eyed him, and then Colette, with open suspicion.

  “You know you get bored with all this work talk.”

  I lifted my chin and stood up. “You’re right. Lily’s waiting for my call.” I put a possessive hand on Connor’s chest and sent a nasty look to Colette. “I’ll let myself out. Don’t be too long, schnookums.”

  As I made my way back through the house, I wondered just how far Connor would go to get information. Then I wondered why I was wondering.

  I didn’t like this Colette woman. Or maybe I did like her, for the murder attempt.

  I paused before the French doors at the entrance, spotting a key fob hanging on the tasteful coatrack. Closing my hand around the keys slowly but firmly to stop them from jingling, I hoisted them from the hook, grabbed my phone, and took a photo of each key. Just in case. Then I returned them to the coatrack and hightailed it back to the car.

  9

  When Connor returned, I made a point of not mentioning the pink lipstick smeared on his cheek. “How’d it go?”

  “She suggested we look into Tahlia.”

  “What? Why?”

  “According to Colette, she’s pathetically infatuated with Josh Summers and was jealous of Dana.”

  I folded my arms and harrumphed. I suspected that in Colette’s eyes, everyone was pathetic and jealous.

  “Colette seems to be a more viable suspect,” Connor said. “She insinuated she did more for Josh than clean. She could’ve been angry about being cast aside for Dana. Still, I’d say it’s more likely someone offered her big bucks to do the deed, and she considered it a convenient business transaction.”

  “Wouldn’t she worry about the risk?”

  “Not if the bribe was generous enough. The only thing that woman loves more than herself is money. I’ll get our research team to look into her financial history.” He peered in the rearview mirror and wiped the lipstick off his face with a handkerchief he procured from his pocket.

  I don’t know why, but every time Connor referred to the research team, I imagined a bunch of people and computers sitting in a room with blacked out windows and harsh fluorescent lighting. In reality, the Taste Society had enough money that the office was probably the height of luxury, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a real espresso machine.

  Okay. Maybe not a real espresso machine, but only because the demand wasn’t there for it.

  “While you were being hit on, I did some sleuthing of my own.”

  “Oh?”

  I told him about the keys.

  “Good,” Connor said. “She had easy enough access without them, but if she did make copies, then someone else might have too. And it’ll give us another excuse to question her if we need to.”

  I nodded like I’d thought of all that. “Where to next?”

  “Dana’s apartment.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Shades are well positioned to notice if anyone acts suspiciously around the target. I usually question them first, but in this case, I’m hoping her apartment will give us a clue.”

  I gaped at him, horrified by the idea of him searching my apartment. Another thing the Taste Society failed to mention about being a Shade. “That’s an invasion of privacy. What if she has personal items she doesn’t want you digging through? What if she keeps a journal?”

  “That would be useful.”

  “But it’s private!”

  Connor sounded bored. “Would you prefer someone read your journal to save your life or respect your privacy and let you die?”

  I was learning that the more emotional a person got, the more impassive he became.

  I took a deep breath and made myself consider his question seriously. When I imagined what I might
have written over the last few days if I kept a personal journal—

  Connor’s undies are super comfortable. I’m not giving them back.

  Connor’s ass is so beautiful, it deserves its own poem:

  I’ve seen Picasso’s paintings,

  And Rodin’s molded clay,

  But when I gazed upon your buttocks,

  I could not tell night from day.

  —the answer was easy. “Let me die,” I said.

  After a brief stop at an organic place for takeout to appease my stomach, we pulled up at a modest block of apartments in Koreatown.

  “You’re welcome to stay in the car, but I’m going in,” Connor said.

  I was convinced Dana would hate the idea of us looking through her things. She was a private person and had barely told me anything about her past. Again, I couldn’t figure out if the ends justified the means. But what if Connor missed something and she died? Could I live with that? I got out of the car.

  We made our way up to the third floor and passed a row of uniform wooden doors until we reached Dana’s. Her door was painted an incongruous yellow. Connor produced a key, and I sent Dana a silent apology as we stepped inside.

  The apartment was modest and impersonal, like she was just passing through. Furniture was sparse and ordinary. Photos and artwork were nonexistent. It made the yellow door even more incongruous, and I wondered if it had been painted by the previous tenant.

  I couldn’t bring myself to start rummaging through her stuff yet, so I decided to clear the perishables out of her refrigerator and take out her trash. That way, if she ever came home… I blinked back a few pesky tears. We’d make sure she came home.

  There wasn’t much in the fridge—skim milk, a few slices of deli turkey, lettuce, bread, and half a dozen condiments. No point having more than snack food around when you’re a Shade on the job. I pulled out the perishables and put them on the counter.

  I stared a long time at the garbage can. If I were a PI, I would go through it, but I wasn’t a PI.

  Yet what if it held a vital clue?

  I blew some escaped hair out of my eyes and peered under the kitchen sink for gloves. I found a yellow rubber pair. Out of excuses, I pulled them on, grabbed an extra garbage bag, and returned to the trash can. Holding my breath as much as possible, I transferred each item from one garbage bag to the other. There were a few unrecognizable food scraps, a bunch of soggy tea bags, some soiled paper towels, and a couple of bread crusts.

  Maybe someone smarter than me could divine wisdom from that, but I had nothing.

  I chucked in the perishables I’d left on the counter, added the gloves for good measure, and took the garbage bag to the door to take out when we left.

  Connor had searched her bedroom and was now going through the single filing cabinet. I didn’t know whether to be upset or relieved that he hadn’t found a journal yet.

  I went back to the kitchen and started sorting through the cupboards for anything out of place. I hesitated when I came across a Royal Dansk cookie tin—not that it was out of place, but because I’m a sucker for cookies of any kind. Some kids dream of being astronauts; I wanted to marry Cookie Monster. Dana wouldn’t mind if I ate just one.

  Maybe I was still procrastinating, but I pried off the lid anyway. Instead of cookies, I found a newspaper clipping of a black-and-white photo of three teenagers. That was odd. I found it even more suspicious (and disappointing) that there weren’t even any cookie crumbs.

  I scanned the caption: Pictured left to right: Henry Smythe, Josh Summers, and Kate Williamson.

  Sure enough, the kid in the middle was a younger version of Josh. I didn’t recognize the names or faces of his companions, but that wasn’t surprising, given the photo must have been taken over twenty years ago.

  I brought it over to Connor.

  “Add it to the pile.”

  I placed it on top of Dana’s laptop and a bunch of official-looking statements.

  The rest of our search yielded very little, but Connor was hopeful the research team would find something useful on her laptop. He’d also instructed them to track down the article the photo had been clipped from.

  As we walked back to the car, the air seemed heavier than it had before. Maybe it was the garbage bag I was carrying. “Can I visit Dana?” I asked. “I know she’s unconscious, but she might like company.”

  Connor’s eyes actually showed pity. “I’m sorry, but Taste Society protocol is that no one without top security clearance can visit a poison victim. Can’t risk someone finishing the job.”

  I nodded numbly, dumped the bag in the trashcan, and got in the car. I wasn’t mad about it, but I wasn’t up to conversation either, so I stared out the window.

  I was still staring unseeing out of it when Connor stopped the car and shut the engine off. I shook my head to clear it and followed him outside. It was only when he handed me some earplugs that I realized we’d entered a shooting range.

  “Time for your first lesson.”

  He walked me through the safety rules, which pretty much amounted to keeping my finger off the trigger and pretending it could go off of its own accord at any moment. This did not fill me with confidence.

  He handed me the gun. It might’ve been because my only previous experience with guns was with the water pistol variety, but it was larger, heavier, and uglier than I expected.

  “This is a Ruger Mark II 22/45,” he said, as if that would mean something to me. “It’s a good weapon to learn on because it has a simple single action, low recoil, and is consistent and accurate. It also has a nice natural hold.”

  “That’s great,” I said, holding the monstrous thing awkwardly in two hands and concentrating on pointing it down and away from our toes in case it went off. “But I only understood a third of what you just said.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll run through it again as we go.” He stepped up behind me and positioned my feet, arms, elbows, and hands. It occurred to me that this was the part in the movie where I’d feel his body pressing against mine and realize I was falling for him. But I was too worried about the death device in my hands to focus on his hot, hard body against mine. Mostly.

  “That’s it.” He flicked off the safety. “Now, sight your target, squeeze the trigger gently, and be prepared for the recoil.”

  The gun bucked in my hand, and I squeaked and dodged when a bit of metal ejected from the top of it and flew straight at me.

  Connor steadied my waving hands. “It’s okay. That’s supposed to happen. That’s why you’re wearing safety glasses. Now look at how you did.”

  I studied the target while Connor shifted me back into position. I’d hit the outside edge of the paper.

  “Good. Now do it again.”

  I took a deep breath and did it again. And again. He showed me how to reload what he said was a ten-round magazine, adjusted my stance, and repeated the procedure.

  Twenty-two shots in, I realized the death device was starting to feel less alien in my hands, and my focus had shifted from trying not to shoot myself in the foot, to hitting inside the black line every time. After another round, my aim had improved, and Connor was only making minor adjustments to my stance.

  “Good. That’s enough for today.”

  Seeing as both my arms were trembling, and the ground was littered with bullet casings, I agreed with him.

  We left the din of the shooting range and went to get coffee. Or in my case, tea. The numb fog that had settled on me in Dana’s apartment had lifted, and I thought there might be something to this gun thing. At least in a safe, controlled environment with a paper bad guy as the only victim.

  I did my taste testing routine, complete with the nose wrinkle, on Connor’s coffee and slid it over to him.

  “Thanks for the lesson,” I said.

  He nodded acknowledgement and took a sip. “We’ve run out of people to interview today, so you might as well go home and work on the hate mail. I’m going to hand in Dana’s things and look ove
r the case files again.”

  After a happy reunion with my Corvette, I arrived home, groceries and newly acquired garlic in hand. Oliver was on the couch with Meow, watching a sci-fi movie on his laptop. He paused it when he saw me.

  “Izzy, how are you doing?”

  “Good. What about you? Did Meow have any presents for you when you got home?” Aside from accepting food and cuddles, Meow’s favorite pastime was hunting cockroaches. She was good at it, too. She left their crunchy carcasses as gifts by the front door for whoever came home first. Impressive, given how hard they are to kill.

  “Yep! Three today, and one was as big as they come.” He tickled her under the chin, proud as any father.

  “I’m starting to think she’s saving them up for you. I haven’t found any for a few days.”

  He grinned. “That’s my girl. She knows I appreciate them more than you do.”

  I piled the groceries on the counter. “Well, a dead cockroach is the best kind of cockroach, but she might be right.”

  Oliver’s expression sobered. “I was wondering, Iz, have you thought any more about that waitressing job at the Fox?”

  I rummaged in the utensil drawer for a peeler. “That was very sweet of you, but I don’t need it. My new job is great. Loads more money than waitressing too.”

  He slid Meow off his lap and came over, bringing his familiar scent of lime and smoky rum with him. I could never figure out if it was his cologne or a side effect of bartending.

  “That’s good.” His tone implied otherwise. “What does the job involve?”

  I hesitated. “I can’t say exactly, I signed a confidentiality agreement.” Or took a weird, archaic oath and signed a thousand confidentiality agreements. Meow wandered over, and I picked her up for a snuggle.

  “You’ve got to admit that it sounds shady.”

  Thanks to Meow’s calming influence, I managed not to react to his choice of words. “I’m just working for people who value their privacy.” Not so much their Shades’ privacy, though. I stroked Meow’s back. “It’s nothing dodgy, I promise.”