Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set

by Chelsea Field

  “Secondly, because it’s a nonlethal weapon, it should reduce your instinctive reluctance to use it. Remember, a few seconds of indecision can cost you your life.”

  I tucked that fun fact away for something to worry over some night when I couldn’t sleep.

  “At the same time, its neuromuscular incapacitation method causes the person to lose all muscular control, which is better than a bullet, because a person with a gunshot wound can still shoot you back.” His eyes met mine deliberately. “Last but not least, it’s harder to shoot yourself. And even if you do, you won’t die.”

  I nodded. “All good points. You should sell these things.”

  “It’s also less messy than pepper spray. You can use it inside and in the wind without risk to yourself.”

  “Maybe I should carry that around in my cleavage then.”

  Connor eyed my neckline dubiously.

  I huffed because he was right. My cleavage was not going to conceal the Taser.

  Connor showed me how to load and unload cartridges, operate the safety, and aim using the laser sight. “Aim for the upper torso or thigh. If you hit your target, it will zap them for thirty seconds unless you use the safety to stop it. Drop the Taser, and use the time to get your ass out of there. If you miss and don’t have time to load a second cartridge, you can use it like a stun gun by pushing it firmly against your assailant. Aim for the neck, upper chest, thigh or groin. It’ll hurt like hell but won’t incapacitate your bad guy. It might just piss him off.”

  “So don’t miss?”

  “That would be your best option. The laser sight will help and shows where the top probe will hit. If you have a choice, wait until you’re about seven feet away. That’ll make the probes about a foot apart. The weapon has a top range of fifteen feet, but the farther away you are, the farther apart the probes will be, and so the more likely one will miss. On the other hand, if you shoot when you’re too close and the probes land less than four inches apart, it won’t work properly.”

  “Oh great, now the pepper spray is starting to sound better.”

  “If only one probe hits, you can complete the circuit by using it as a stun gun on a second point, but of course you can’t hold it and get away at the same time. You also have to be wary of very thick or loose clothing.”

  “Am I going to be quizzed on this?” I asked.

  “I suppose you could call it a quiz when Mr. Black comes after you again.”

  I gulped. “Point taken. Um. So what else?”

  He gestured to Spider-Man. “Take a practice shot.”

  It was a pretty simple undertaking with a stationary target, a laser sight, and all the time in the world. I suspected it wouldn’t be quite as easy in the heat of the moment. Still, I felt more confident about meeting Mr. Black again than I had a few hours ago.

  “Good,” Connor said. “Now I’ll teach you what to do if your attacker sneaks up on you and grabs you from behind.”

  Oh boy. I hadn’t even considered that.

  A second later I found myself wrapped in Connor’s arms. It had been a terrifying, exhausting day, and I hadn’t been held like that in almost two years. Without thinking, I melted back into him.

  “Okay,” Connor said, breaking into my reverie. “Your instincts aren’t bad. When someone grabs you, you want to drop your weight, but instead of leaning back, lean forward, and do it abruptly to try to break their grip.”

  I was glad Connor couldn’t see me blush.

  “Even if you can’t, you’ve bought yourself a few extra seconds before they can lift you up, and some leverage to slam your heel into the top of their foot. Do it as hard as you can. It’ll work better if you’re wearing heels. That should help break his concentration and make him loosen his grip further, allowing you to get an elbow to the groin. If he’s already lifted you up, you can try kicking him there instead. If you have an arm free, you can also try grabbing one of his fingers and bending it backward. As soon as his grip loosens, get out of there. You might want to pull out the pepper spray or Taser as you’re running, but don’t pause to use it until you’re well out of his reach.”

  I nodded, still struggling to get back into the self-defense mindset.

  “Run through the moves to see what they feel like, then I’ll show you how to adjust them depending on how I grab you.”

  I did as I was told and tried not to think too much about the other ways I might like him to grab me.

  Maria made us an Asian beef and vegetable stir-fry for late lunch or early dinner. While she was organizing it, I checked my phone and was glad to see no new messages from Albert. I was even more glad to hear a voice mail from the vet saying that Meow was doing well and should be able to go home the next afternoon.

  Connor had coffee again, and I forgot to conceal my distaste as he pushed it toward me.

  “No way,” he said. “You can’t whine about bad coffee after I watched you eat cat food today.”

  I wanted to gag at the memory. “That was life and death. I’d drink it for you if it was the only way to prevent you from dying.”

  “Stop,” he said. “You’re making me feel all warm inside.”

  I stared at him. “Did you just make a joke?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “You do realize that preventing your clients from dying is exactly why you’re supposed to drink it don’t you? You’re lucky this assessment isn’t on Shade theory.”

  I scowled at him, tasted the damn coffee, then turned my attention to the delicious stir-fry.

  17

  Connor had a lot to organize for the hitman trap and suggested I get an early night. I wasn’t sure if he was looking out for me or had reached his Izzy limit for the day. He drove me home and did a walk-through of the apartment before leaving.

  I locked the door behind him, then changed into more comfortable clothes, transferring the pepper spray to the right pocket of my sweats, and after a second’s consideration, the Taser into the left. I even remembered to put a spare pair of undies in my handbag. Pleased with this small triumph, I limped out to the kitchen, cleaned up Meow’s food bowl and puke, and started cooking.

  Oliver would be home at a decent hour, and I planned to use my extra time to cook him a roast. I missed Meow weaving around my legs and making a nuisance of herself as I hobbled about the kitchen. She was always quick to notice if I was making something with meat and had me well-trained as her food dispenser.

  When the roast was in the oven, I logged on to my company laptop to start going through the digital hate mail Tahlia had forwarded to me. I scrolled down to the first of them and noticed an email above it from my rat-bastard ex-husband, Steve. Oh goody. I clicked on it with dread.

  The last email I’d gotten from him was a month before while I was still in training. He’d asked for my new address because Platypus Lending were threatening to break his legs for the missing payments if they couldn’t find me. I’d replied with one word: Good.

  This email, dated a week ago, informed me that due to my lack of maturity and unwillingness to do the right thing, he’d suggested to Platypus Lending that they get in touch with my mother.

  Anger simmered hot like a pot of chili con carne. Not only had Steve seen fit to saddle me with the debt to a bone-breaking lending company in the first place, but I could thank him for my visit from Mr. Black, this morning too. For a fleeting moment, I wished he was in LA so I could practice using my new self-defense toys on him. Then I remembered it would land me in jail, unless he attacked first, and decided it was for the best that he was eight thousand miles away. And that I couldn’t take my Taser or pepper spray back to Australia with me.

  Since I was about to pore over hate mail to search for Dana’s would-be killer, I decided not to reply to Steve. If Platypus Lending ever got to him, I didn’t want to become a suspect. I deleted his email and opened the first one Tahlia had forwarded to me.

  I was a quarter of the way through them when Oliver got home.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said as
soon as he walked through the door.

  “Bollocks. It’s not your fault old thing. And I called the vet during my break, and they said she’s doing really well.”

  “But still.”

  He patted me on the arm. “She’s okay. That’s what matters. Now, is that dinner that smells so good?”

  I was plating up when someone knocked on the door. Oliver was slouched in front of the TV, so I went to peek out the window. The silhouette was far too slim to be Mr. Black, and far too short to be Albert. I opened the door. “Etta, we were just about to have dinner. Want to join us?”

  She stepped inside, took one look at the dining table, which was still covered with flowers, and joined Oliver on the couch.

  “Have you two met?” I called over the TV.

  Etta elbowed Oliver. “Yes, but he’s hardly ever home, and when he is, he’s asleep.”

  Oliver elbowed her back. “If I am awake, I sometimes put up with her, but mostly just because she dresses better than the Queen.”

  “Darn right I do. That old bag’s got nothing on me.”

  I brought the plates over and joined them on the couch. A cricket match was on, but only because Oliver was holding the remote above his head, out of Etta’s reach.

  “Tell him to be a gentleman and let a little old lady choose what to watch, won’t you?”

  “My TV, my satellite, my choice. Besides, if I give it to you, you’ll switch it to that new disgusting medical discoveries reality show. Izzy won’t be able to eat if we put that on.”

  Etta grabbed her plate from me and huffed. “Fine. Then at least turn it down so we can talk. It’s not like anything in cricket happens too fast to watch with your eyes alone. That’s why the commentators just blab on about the weather and conditions the whole time.”

  Oliver lowered the volume and took his plate. There was silence for a minute as we all stuffed our faces. Etta finished chewing first. “So, Izzy, who are all the flowers from? Your hot boyfriend or that mysterious famous person you were worried about?”

  “Famous person?” Oliver asked. “Why didn’t I hear about this famous person?”

  “You once whined to me that if you had a tuppence for every time a customer said the word ‘famous,’ you’d be able to single-handedly bankroll Her Royal Majesty’s hat collection,” I said. “I figured you wouldn’t want to hear about it.”

  “Fair point.” He downed some beer. “I consider it one of life’s great ironies that I escaped a continent of royal-obsessed madmen, only to end up in the one other place on earth equally obsessed with their famous figures.”

  Etta put her fork down for a moment to pat his cheek. “And I consider it one of life’s great mysteries that you choose to stay.” She turned to me, forcing Oliver to content himself with scowling at the back of her head. “So? The flowers?”

  “From my boyfriend.”

  “And your date with Mr. Famous?”

  “I never said it was a date!”

  Etta smirked. “So, I guess it went well then?”

  I skewered a chunk of roast potato and ate it before replying. “You could say that.” But you’d be wrong.

  “And who’s that new man you had around here yesterday morning?” Etta asked, waving her fork in the air as she spoke. “The big hunky one. Is he single? Can you set me up?”

  My jaw dropped. “Mr. Black? The one who looks like the Hulk, you mean?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Sorry, he’s happily married.”

  “Pah! All the good ones are. Still, see if he’s into a little bit of hanky-panky on the side. I’m not looking for commitment.”

  I dropped my fork.

  Oliver snorted in disgust. “You made me turn down the cricket for this? I’m going to my bedroom so I can watch it in peace. Thanks for the roast, Izzy.”

  Etta was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read. I picked up my fork. Should I warn her that Mr. Black broke bones for a living?

  “It’s not that I don’t have plenty of men to choose from,” she said, before I could speak. “Only last night, I went out with Morty Howard and had some wonderful sex. It’s just I like variety.”

  I had no idea how to respond, so I shoved more food in my mouth.

  “Now, don’t be like that, dear. Sex is just as good for older folk as it is for you kids. Better even, because everyone’s got more experience, less inhibitions, and nobody’s expecting anybody to look perfect naked. My doctor told me that as long as I can walk up a flight of stairs then I can keep having sex. That’s why I chose an upstairs apartment. And let me tell you, I can walk up and down those bad boys a whole lotta times a day.”

  “That’s great,” I choked out.

  “I liked your idea of turning the stair landing into a balcony, by the way. I think I might do that too. That’ll show all those people paying through the nose for the fancy-pants apartments with private balconies.” She smiled and cut into her remaining meat aggressively.

  I opted not to point out that it would be a tripping hazard. I got away with it because we had the top apartment farthest from the stairs, but Oliver and I had to walk past Etta’s door every day.

  She chewed her meat thoughtfully. “And I saw you and Mr. Black went for a run yesterday. Is he your new personal trainer? And why the bare feet? Is that one of those newfangled things? Meant to make you more grounded or something? I’m not sure it’s a good idea, sweetie, because when you get to my age, the last thing you wanna do is make your feet tougher. I won’t go into details, but you might wanna wear a bra next time too.”

  She used her last piece of meat to wipe up the rest of the gravy and popped it, dripping, into her mouth. When she finished, she put her cutlery down and settled back into the couch. “Do you have any more of those cookies?”

  Connor had instructed me to get in my car fifteen minutes before his fictional eleven o’clock meeting at Grizzle and Girdles. He didn’t want me alone in the apartment after the time Albert would expect my boyfriend to have been “taken care of.”

  I’d spent the morning reading the rest of the hate emails. The content was even worse than the letters, but sending a nasty email demonstrated less commitment than writing and posting snail mail, and I hadn’t come up with any great leads.

  I did not go out on the “balcony.”

  At ten forty-five, I dragged my aching body down to the car, eyes peeled like the Queen’s grapes, hand hovering over the Taser in my handbag. Mr. Black and Albert were nowhere to be seen. I locked the doors of the Corvette as soon as I was safe inside anyway, and joined the giant conga line of traffic heading bumper-to-bumper toward Bel Air.

  I couldn’t go to Grizzle and Girdles until Connor texted me to say the hitman trap had been sprung, but Albert’s home was in the same general direction as Sunset Boulevard. This way, if Albert had someone tailing me, it would seem as if I was hurrying back to his lair like a good little adoring fan until Connor contacted me and I turned off route.

  The message came twenty-five minutes later. I swung west toward Grizzle and Girdles and felt my tension ease away.

  The establishment was what it sounded like. A place for grizzled gentleman to enjoy the finest alcoholic beverages served by girls in sexy girdles, accompanying lingerie, and heels. Classier than a topless titty bar, yet catering to the same base desires. I didn’t ask how Connor knew the owner so well.

  When I rocked up to the address on Sunset Boulevard, Connor was waiting for me in the hedged parking lot. The retro strains of Leo Sayer’s “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing” spilled out of the building behind him.

  “I’ve got our hitman,” he said.

  “Are you sure? How?”

  “I saw him slip something in my drink while I was feigning distraction, so my SIG and I”—he patted a holster I hadn’t seen before—“persuaded him to go upstairs. Follow me.”

  He ushered me through the first room of the bar. The few male heads there at that hour swiveled to look at me, but turned away again after
a few seconds. No girdle. No interest. Connor steered me to a small, roped-off staircase that led up two floors to a windowless attic used as a storeroom. The music below us faded to nothing as we ascended.

  Albert’s hitman was tied to a chair amongst the stacks of dusty boxes. He looked like my old accountant—slight, balding, and boring. He was gagged, but no one would hear him if he screamed all the way up here anyway.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  Connor pulled out a syringe from his jacket and strode over to the would-be assassin, who yelled something into his gag, his eyes locked on the needle. Connor plunged it into his neck.

  The muffled shout turned into a high-pitched scream.

  “You’ve just been injected with a lethal dose of Sverinx,” Connor said. “As you’d know in your line of work, that means you’ll start feeling restless, and may also experience nausea, sweating, and dizziness. A few minutes after that, you’ll start to have heart palpitations. A few minutes after that, you’ll be dead.”

  I gaped at Connor in shock. His face was as cold as I’d ever seen it.

  The hitman writhed in his chair, his head shaking back and forth as if he could change the truth if he struggled against it hard enough.

  “Unless of course, I give you the antidote,” Connor said, pulling another syringe from his jacket.

  I started to breathe again.

  The hitman stopped struggling.

  Connor tucked the antidote out of sight again and ripped off the gag. “Tell me who hired you.”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy. I swear. I don’t know anything.”

  “Don’t waste your breath. I saw you spike my scotch.” He looked at his watch. “Think fast. You only have a few minutes.”

  The man hesitated. “How do I know you’ll give me the antidote if I talk?”

  “You don’t. But you can be sure I won’t if you don’t.”

  The man’s face grew shiny with sweat. “Look, I want to help you, but I can’t give up my client’s name. I’ll never work again!”