Oliver’s serious mood didn’t lighten. It seemed unnatural on someone so easygoing. He was eyeing my designer coral blouse and gray skirt; a big change from the jeans and T-shirts I’d worn all the times he’d seen me at the Fox.
“I don’t know,” he said. “New secret job. New rich boyfriend. And a new glamorous wardrobe. You don’t have to tell me what you’re doing, but you do need to tell me if you’re not okay.”
I put Meow down, kicked off the sandals that were killing my feet, and started peeling veggies. “Look, it’s lovely of you to worry about me, but you have to trust me on this one.” I wondered how I could convince him.
Or if not convince, distract.
“Besides,” I said, “I thought you’d enjoy having a glamorous housemate. We all know how much you love that glamorous monarch of yours.”
Oliver’s rants about the Queen of England were legendary at the Fox. No one knew if he actually felt strongly about it or was just hamming it up for a laugh, but it was public knowledge that if you mentioned her, you’d get at least sixty seconds of entertainment.
It was like a free jukebox.
“Glamorous? The Queen? Are you messing with me?”
I smiled. “Not at all. She seems very chic.”
Oliver’s voice rose with indignation. “Where, in the vast vista of the universe, have you been hiding all these years? There’s nothing glamorous about a little old lady parading around in a rainbow of matching outfits with matching hats, covered in corgi hair.” His hands started waving about for emphasis. “Think of her poor servants who have to get all that dog hair and drool off her clothes! Think of the poor hat makers who have to design a carriage load of ridiculous hats every single year! And think of me, and all her other wretched subjects, laboring under her rule to pay for it!” His face dared me to dispute it. “Tell me, Izzy, what in all of the blue oceans, is glamorous about that?”
I smothered a laugh. “Are you still paying tax to Britain, then?”
He sent me a fiery glare and stalked back to the couch.
Distraction successful. “Dinner will be ready in an hour and a half.”
He shook his head. “Sometimes I feel bad about you cooking for me all the time, but right now, I can only hope your servitude will teach you some sympathy for the poor, beleaguered citizens of England.” With this lofty pronouncement, he started the movie again.
I laughed to myself. Better than a free jukebox.
I covered the veggies with olive oil, celery salt, and a few herbs and threw them in the oven to roast. Preparing the white sauce was next, and while I was at it, I whipped up another batch of cookies so I could leave a plate of them outside Etta Hamilton’s door. The kitchen had been my domain ever since I’d joined Mum there as an eight-year-old, and I was used to multitasking from my years of making coffees, plating up meals, and serving customers.
Meow had returned to the couch with Oliver. She was happy enough to hang with me when Oliver was out, but whenever he was home she was his shadow cat. I didn’t hold it against her. Loyalty was a trait I admired. One my ex had lacked.
This time, I made sure to feed her before showering and climbing into bed.
Tucked away in my room, I pulled out the box of hate mail and withdrew the first letter from its envelope. I took note of the postmark and the handwriting, just in case I could spot any patterns. The writer threatened various sexual acts, many of which I didn’t think were anatomically possible. I wasn’t tempted to try them to find out either. There was no mention of death, so I put it on my “unlikely” pile.
The next letter simply stated, “I’m watching you.” It wasn’t overtly threatening aside from the creepy stalker vibe, so it too went on the unlikely pile. The letter after that was so violent that I couldn’t imagine its writer having the subtlety to poison someone.
A small mountain of letters later, my eyes were starting to blur, and I’d lost a lot of faith in the human race. I had four letters in the “worth investigating” pile.
Three were from the same person, a man who lost his job at Wholesome Foods after cost cutbacks and blamed Josh, with increasing anger, for all his unemployment woes. I didn’t think it was a great lead because, outside of the secret world of the rich and powerful, poison tends to be a woman’s weapon rather than a man’s.
The Taste Society told us it’s one of the reasons the authorities help cover it up—publicity would risk popularizing poisoning among the masses. Think of what the anonymous, indirect nature of the Internet did to bring out the ugly in some people. No one wants to shine the spotlight on an anonymous, indirect method of murder.
Besides, unless this ex-Wholesome Foods employee had really lost his mind, it would be dumb to send a whole series of signed letters threatening his intended target. I thought Connor might want to look at them anyway. Maybe the guy’s wife did it, not knowing about the letters. Maybe some criminals are that stupid.
The other letter was from the mother of an underprivileged kid who’d attended Josh’s culinary school and never returned home. She blamed Josh for stealing her son away and expressed a fervent wish that one day he’d understand what it felt like to have his heart ripped from his chest. I didn’t think she’d have the money to hire a hitman, but she might know people who knew people who might be convinced to do it as a favor. And a mother’s love is a powerful motivator.
Possibly powerful enough to commit murder.
10
Now that I was no longer trapped indoors at the Taste Society’s training facility, I was starting to understand why Oliver stuck around for the weather. It was another beautiful seventy-seven-degree day, and in just eleven more I’d receive my first paycheck.
Bruce-the-Bruiser could suck it.
I was further cheered when I realized that because of my lunch date with Albert, Connor probably wouldn’t even poison my breakfast today.
I headed downstairs to meet him, pleased to see Etta had taken in the plate of cookies I’d left her. Either that or Mr. Larson had stolen them to feed to his hamster.
Ever since Etta had given me the low-down on my neighbors, I’d noticed the faint sounds of sex or shouting whenever I passed the Flanagans’ door. Today they were enjoying morning makeup sex. Good for them. Trying not to think about the last time I’d had sex, I climbed into the car, Connor holding my door as usual.
He slipped into the driver’s seat beside me, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Notice anything?”
I looked him over. He hadn’t grown any less attractive overnight. If anything, his quiet kindness after Dana’s apartment yesterday had made him even more appealing. Or maybe it was having sex on my mind.
Lucky my time in LA was making me immune to beautiful people. “Nope?”
He patted the steering wheel. “It’s the car you gave away. Complete with a new tire.”
I crossed my arms. Nope, no matter how good-looking he was, my knees were just weak from hunger. “I resent you saying I gave it away, like I had a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“Not when someone has a gun to your head, you don’t! And I’d like to remind you I meant that literally.”
“Well, technically, there was a bulletproof window between the gun and your head.”
I let my face say a thousand words.
He patted the steering wheel again. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“I’d be happier for you if you were a nicer person.”
We drove in a silence for a while.
“Or maybe if you bought me breakfast.”
We stopped at a little sandwich place in Culver City. The chairs were the uncomfortable metal variety that didn’t encourage you to linger, but the smells coming from the kitchen made you sit your butt down without complaint.
I ordered a BLT panini with avocado and egg added. Connor ordered the breakfast burrito. While we waited for our food to arrive, I showed him the suspect letters and he updated me on the latest research findings.
“There’s not a lot to report,” he said. “The sick woman we saw at the Castillos’ is Juan’s sister. She has stage three bowel cancer and has been undergoing chemotherapy for the last two months, but the extended family claims they’ve all rallied together and are managing to pay for treatment.”
Juan’s cheerful, weathered face flitted into my mind. No one deserves that. Of course, cancer strikes regardless of wealth, gender, or race, and death brings grief indiscriminately, but having to worry about making ends meet in those circumstances seems especially cruel. “So, will they be receiving an anonymous donation?” I asked.
Connor scowled. “You’re not good at minding your own business are you?”
“My own business isn’t all that interesting.”
Connor didn’t respond right away. Maybe he was practicing deep breathing exercises. “There were no suspicious deposits in Juan’s bank account either,” he said at last. “On the other hand, Colette has plenty of large deposits in her account, but that’s because she charges between one hundred and four hundred bucks an hour.”
Good thing our food hadn’t come yet, or I would’ve spat mine all over the table. Why the hell was I trying to become a Shade if I could make that kind of money cleaning houses?
Connor leaned back in his chair and studied me. “There’s no law against exorbitant fees you know. Her clients are paying for the prestige of having a pretty, sophisticated maid instead of the more common variety.”
Damn. Sophisticated, I was not. To be fair, I’d never shown any particular aptitude for housekeeping either.
“I haven’t gotten to the interesting part yet.”
I flapped a hand in his direction. “By all means, don’t let my shock stop you.”
“Josh Summers tripled Colette’s wages three weeks ago.”
I really hoped he wouldn’t tell me how much that amounted to. The eleven days until my paycheck didn’t seem as exciting anymore.
Connor was waiting. I shoved aside my jealousy and tried to make sense of Colette’s raise. “So, either Josh needed a lot more cleaning done, or something strange is going on.”
“Yes. But whatever the reason, it’s unlikely it led to an attempt on Josh’s life. Which means your new friend Albert is still our best suspect.”
The waitress arrived with our breakfast, and we put the papers away to make room for it on our tiny table.
By the time I’d sampled bits of the omelet, cheese, hash browns, bacon, salsa, and avocado in Connor’s meal, I’d decided LA was onto something with this breakfast burrito thing. My toasted panini was delicious too. All I needed now was a real espresso.
Instead, Connor passed me the audio transmitter watch I’d worn yesterday and a small vial of liquid. “For your date this afternoon. It’s a large dose of purified ketoconazole and will prevent Mr. Alstrom from getting too excited with you if it comes to that. It’s been refined to be odorless and almost tasteless, so as long as you slip it in something besides water, he shouldn’t notice. It takes fifteen minutes to start working.”
I tucked the vial into my bag. My breakfast wasn’t sitting quite as well as it had been a minute ago.
“Ask as many questions as you can get away with, but not so many he gets suspicious. Like yesterday, I’ll be listening in nearby, so you shouldn’t be in any danger.”
“About that,” I said, strapping the watch onto my wrist. “I think we should check out the grieving mother who wrote that hate letter.” It didn’t matter how my breakfast was sitting. This was important.
“Maybe.” His tone was noncommittal.
“Look, it might not be her, but I think it’s worth talking to her to find out if it’s an angle we should pursue. I even found her last known address for you.” I slid the piece of paper to him. “It’s near where Tahlia grew up.” As much as I didn’t want it to be Tahlia, when I found the link, I knew we’d have to investigate it.
Connor left the address on the table. “Then we can both go talk to her, after your date.”
“Aren’t you excited to drive your car now that it’s back?”
“I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself.”
I glared at him. “You make me sound like I’m some defenseless maiden.”
“He’s tied to multiple murders, Isobel.”
I looked down at my lap. He was right, but Dana’s vacant apartment was still haunting my thoughts. The culinary student’s angry mother lived in San Diego—over two hours away—which meant it would take us the entire afternoon if I went with him.
I raised my eyes again. So far, I’d let Connor make the decisions. He was the expert after all—but that was exactly why I was taking a stand now. He was wasted sitting around protecting me when he could be chasing down leads. When Dana needed him to be chasing down leads. “Allegedly tied to multiple murders,” I corrected. “And this is the third day Dana’s been unconscious. She’s running out of time.”
He stared at me for a full minute.
I kept my gaze steady until he picked up the address.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”
Connor dropped me back at my apartment to await my celebrity date. Unable to relax, I touched up my hair, reapplied my lipstick, and looked down at my outfit. I was wearing a floral pink, black, and white pencil skirt with a slit up the side, and a white, stretchy scoop-neck top. I pulled the neckline down a little lower. That done, I went over to my bag and checked to make sure the vial was still safe inside. It was there, same as it had been five minutes ago.
I hadn’t realized how much of my former confidence had come from knowing Connor would be nearby. I was nervous. Meow, on the other hand, seemed unfazed. I scratched her under the chin, and she donated some gray and black hairs to my skirt. At least they kind of blended in.
There was a knock on the door, and my heart fluttered in my chest until I saw it was Etta. She was wearing an elegant fitted dress this time with half-length sleeves in navy and white. The ensemble was completed by a string of pearls, wedge sandals, and a cigarette in her fingers.
“Care to keep an old lady company for a bit?”
“Did you run out of cookies already?” I asked.
She shot me a sharp look then broke into a smile. “I think I like you.”
I opened the door wide. “I’ll put the kettle on, then.”
She ground out her cigarette and followed me in. We each ate a cookie while the kettle came to a boil. I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes until the car was due.
“You look like my husband, may he rest in peace, used to when he had to go to the dentist. What are you all anxious for? Didn’t you listen to anything I said about stress being the worst thing for you?”
“I’m meeting somebody famous.”
She grabbed another cookie. “Ah, dear, fame and fortune are all very well, but is he good-looking?”
“Maybe, if you like that sort of thing.”
“I like all sorts of things,” she said mysteriously. “But what I don’t like is seeing you stressed. I thought you being from Australia and all would’ve meant you were of hardier stock.”
I shrugged. “I think the whole dangerous animals thing is exaggerated. Sure, we have a bunch of venomous snakes and stuff, but the survival strategy is simple: Don’t step on them. At least you know what’s dangerous and what isn’t. Here in LA, the air itself is out to kill you, and the person who smiles and compliments your necklace might be thinking of strangling you with it.”
Etta chuckled. “There’s some truth to that, but the survival strategy here is simple too. Carry a gun and don’t be afraid to use it.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled out what I thought was a Glock. “As for the air. Well, we all gotta die of something.”
11
At eleven thirty on the dot, a black limousine rolled up. It looked out of place on my street. I took a deep breath, said goodbye to Etta, and hiked down the staircase. All was quiet when I passed 2A. The Flanagans must be out.
When I reached street level,
the driver emerged and introduced himself as Antonio. He helped me into the limo, and I tried not to gawk at the plush, black leather seats, huge flat-screen TV, and fully stocked bar. It was early, but I sipped on the proffered champagne anyway. I was not above a bit of liquid courage.
Thirty-five minutes later, we pulled up to an ultramodern mansion in Bel Air. A ten-foot fence and manned gate protected it from unwanted guests. I must have been wanted because the security guards waved us through.
As we drove through, I could see that the mansion was made up of two giant rectangular prisms set atop one another and cantilevered at a forty-five-degree angle. Floor-to-ceiling dark windows contrasted with the smooth white walls. Beautiful, but comfortless.
I gulped the last bit of my champagne while Antonio stopped the car and then opened my door. “This way please, Ms. Avery.” He escorted me to the bright blue front door and knocked. It opened before his hand had time to fall back to his side.
Standing in the open doorway was my first real-life butler.
“Welcome, Ms. Avery.” His tone was faultlessly polite, yet somehow managed to convey disdain. “Mr. Alstrom is expecting you.”
I tried to hide a smile. Maybe my delight was influenced by the champagne, but he was exactly how I imagined a butler should be—from the straight-faced hauteur, down to the immaculate black morning coat and English accent.
I followed him through a foyer the size of my apartment, already regretting the height of my heels, and glanced back at the door, where I’d left freedom and Antonio behind. I was sad to leave Antonio. He seemed nice.
I fiddled with my watch to reassure myself. Never mind that Connor was an hour and a half away and this place was fortified like Aunt Alice on too much communion wine.
After a minute of following the butler, I knew there was no chance of searching the building surreptitiously. It was too big. Perhaps I could ask Albert for a tour instead and take note of the rooms he didn’t show me. Or at least where his office was.
Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set Page 10
