Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set

by Chelsea Field

  George shook his head, but Connor jumped in with his own observation. “Before you answer, it didn’t escape our notice that all of Albert’s ingredients are stored in canisters. The packet in the trash was the only one we found.”

  The butler’s eyes flicked back and forth between us in disbelief. “Did Mr. Alstrom put you up to this? How did he find out?”

  Connor leaned in, doing the menacing bluff he did so well. “Tell us the truth.”

  George didn’t shrink away from Connor. Years of dealing with the powerful meant he stood straight and composed as he answered.

  “The truth is Mr. Alstrom rang me at eleven p.m. on Christmas Eve and told me he’d come up with a great idea. He proceeded to outline how I was to make cookies to his specifications and deliver them to Ms. Avery for Christmas. Let me reiterate that it was eleven p.m. Christmas Eve. Of course I started doing as he asked regardless. But when I found out there was no self-rising flour and then learned my wife had finished almost all ours too, something came over me. Frankly, it wasn’t worth the nuisance of going to the shops on Christmas Eve and waiting in line for an hour on the casual whim of my employer for an ingredient that didn’t matter anyway. So I used the last of the self-rising flour my wife had and swapped the rest for all-purpose flour, baking powder, and salt like any normal person would do.”

  Connor was already fishing them out of the cupboards. “This baking powder and salt?”

  “Yes.” Now that Connor had walked away, George had allowed his posture to wilt. “Please don’t tell Mr. Alstrom. I’m not sure how deep the new reformed version of him runs. Especially when it comes to cooking.”

  I tasted the salt. Clear. Then the baking powder.

  It wasn’t baking powder. The label clearly said baking powder, but it was chloral hydrate, hidden in plain sight. No wonder Albert was particular about using the right ingredients if this is where he stocked all his illicit substances. And from what I knew of the unreformed Albert, I doubted George was aware of the practice.

  Which meant the whole fiasco was a comedy of errors. Albert really had wanted to apologize with a delicious gift. George really had innocently dosed the cookies with chloral hydrate—due to wanting to save himself a trip to the shops and his employer’s deliberate mislabeling. And my housemate had not so innocently stolen the gingerbread men I’d prepared. All of which had led me to bringing the untasted poisoned cookies to Connor’s family Christmas lunch.

  I closed the lid carefully and tugged Connor’s sleeve. “Thanks for your honesty, George. We’ll be taking the baking powder with us.” A moment later, I grabbed the homemade butter. “This too.”

  6

  I thought about sending a note to Albert to let him know it had been a misunderstanding, but I couldn’t work out how to suggest he throw out all his mislabeled ingredients as part of his reform without getting George in trouble. I leaned my head against the car window and decided it could wait until tomorrow. I’d wasted enough time on Albert today.

  Connor must have seen me use the glass as a pillow. “It’s been a long day. I’ll drop you home.”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t just drop me home,” I told him.

  “Of course. I’ll walk you to your door and make sure there aren’t any other nasty surprises waiting for you.”

  I rolled my head against the glass so I could see his face. “I was hoping you might walk me farther than that. Like, to my bedroom. Or yours preferably since your bed is bigger than mine.” That and his duvet cover was less embarrassing.

  His eyes widened. “Oh…”

  “For an intelligent man who deduces things for a living, you can be rather slow sometimes.”

  Connor pulled the car to a sudden stop. We were on a quiet suburban street with only the light cast by streetlamps to see by. He studied me hungrily for long tense seconds before trailing his fingertips across my cheek, down my neck, and along the length of my arm. Then he captured my hand in his and raised it to his lips.

  By the time he was done demonstrating his talent on my fingers, my body had caught fire and my awareness had narrowed to his skin on mine.

  He drew me closer, his muscled arm supporting my back as he leaned in to meet me.

  “Yes, Isobel,” he said, his breath tickling my ear. “Tonight I’ll show you just how slow I can be…”

  Poison is the New Black

  AN EAT, PRAY, DIE MYSTERY: BOOK 3

  1

  Her hair was the color of Snow White’s poisoned apple, her lips painted to match. She used those lips to smile sweetly at me and clasped her hands in her lap. “I’ve never met a Shade before. What a quaint little thing you are. You must be so brave to put your life on the line for perfect strangers.”

  Blue eyes assessed me. Wondering whether I’d read between the lines. Wondering how I’d react.

  I read between the lines just fine. She thought I looked like an uncultured bumpkin, and she wasn’t pleased about it. The brave comment was to remind me who held the power in this relationship. If I’d been born naturally brave, I wouldn’t have wasted the virtue on protecting the rich and famous. There was only one reason for me to take this job: money. And my potential client had me pegged. Whoever had the money had the power, and she had loads of it.

  “I’m pleased to offer you a new experience, ma’am,” I said, matching her saccharine tone.

  Those eyes narrowed. She didn’t appreciate the reminder of our age gap. Considering her wealth, designer clothes, and the best face and body modern medicine could offer, it was the one thing I had going for me.

  “Call me Mrs. Madison. I insist,” she said with emphasis on the insist part.

  “Of course, Mrs. Madison.”

  She let her hands fall apart and then folded them together again. We were sitting in a parlor, the type that only exists in houses with more rooms than anyone knows what to do with. It was a pretty place to be judged wanting, with a large open fireplace and three arched windows edged with soft, gauzy curtains. The ornate, solid-timber furnishings paired with their pale luxury fabrics were chosen to demonstrate money and taste. At least Vanessa Madison had both. Money was a given in the glamorous western district of Los Angeles, but style was a rarer commodity.

  “I thought the Taste Society would send someone with more polish for this role,” she told me. “The Westside Elite Charity and Social Club can be vicious, and you’ll need to withstand intense scrutiny.”

  Vanessa Madison was president of the Westside Elite Charity and Social (WECS) Club, and it was the other members she needed protection from. But she didn’t need the type of protection a normal bodyguard could provide—threatening someone that way would be tactless. The rich and famous had their own, more subtle, weapon of choice. Which was where Shades like me came in—to protect them from sabotage and murder attempts of the poison variety.

  “That won’t be a problem,” I lied. Acting wasn’t exactly a strength of mine, but I was learning to bluff with the best of them.

  “And you’re so pale. As my dietary adviser, shouldn’t you look more healthy?”

  She was evaluating me as if I were an animal on the auction block, and I wondered if she’d want to check my teeth and gums.

  With great restraint, I resisted baring them at her. “I have extensive food and catering experience that will be an asset to the role,” I said instead.

  It was a stretch of the truth, but that’s what you did in job interviews. Not that I was sure I wanted the job anymore. It had looked good on paper: a client I only had to attend at public functions rather than around-the-clock protection; a low risk of lethal substances; and a cover story that gave me no need to feign an intimate relationship. I should’ve known it was too good to be true.

  Vanessa Madison might just be my most terrifying client yet.

  “Well, all right then.” She cocked her head, her glossy red hair gliding over her shoulders as if it were starring in a shampoo commercial. “I suppose if you don’t work out, I can always fire you
and get a new one.”

  Connor Stiles, a fellow Taste Society agent and now my boyfriend, was waiting for me outside in his SUV. While I stopped clients from being poisoned, he investigated who was behind the attempts. He also assessed new Shade recruits, which was how we’d met.

  The romantic side of our relationship was just days old, and I wasn’t entirely sure how we’d ended up together. At first glance, with his tailored clothes and striking good looks, he seemed a much better fit for Vanessa Madison.

  But he’d had plenty of opportunities to mingle with the Vanessa Madisons of this world, and he’d chosen me: an almost-thirty-year-old Australian who knew nothing about fashion, cared even less, and was still trying to get her life in order.

  Of course, it had taken months for him to warm to me.

  “How’d it go?” he asked now.

  I hoisted myself into my seat and blew some stray hair out of my eyes. “Remember our first meeting?”

  One eyebrow went up a fraction. “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse,” I said.

  His hand found mine and caressed it in a way that stirred the slumbering beast that was my libido. It had been in hibernation for the past two years until Connor and I had woken it up big time last night. And like any newly awakened beast, it had a hunger that wouldn’t be satiated anytime soon.

  “Do you need cheering up?” he asked, leaning in and pressing his lips to the underside of my jaw.

  “Uh-huh.” My agreement came out soft and breathy.

  He started the engine. “Then let’s get coffee and comfort food. I’ll cheer you up some more after that.”

  I snapped on my seat belt and shot him a grin. “You know me so well.”

  Thirty minutes later, we were sipping our matching espressos, and I was polishing off the last of my carrot cake. We were in a cute little café with views over the foothills of West LA. Connor had chosen the spot because he knew I missed the sense of space and natural vistas I’d grown up with in the Adelaide Hills, Australia.

  I stared at the handsome face in front of me and marveled at how lovely it was to share my favorite drink with a man who cared for me. Not just pretended to care for me. Cared for me.

  He caught me staring, and his lips curved upward. We were a long way from being truly familiar with each other, but the muscles in his face were relaxed out of its usual impassive mask, and I didn’t take the compliment lightly.

  “Are you ready for round two of mission cheer up?” he asked.

  I scooped up the last bit of cream cheese frosting and popped it into my mouth suggestively. “Can’t wait.”

  2

  I fell back onto the soft linen, feeling relaxed and loose-limbed with contentment in a way I hadn’t experienced in eons. Connor was extremely talented at satisfying my physical needs. Both in my stomach and in the bedroom.

  “That was amazing,” I breathed.

  Connor grunted in a way that said, “Well, duh.”

  The art of communication was something we were working on.

  I took another minute to revel in my happy afterglow before rolling to face him. His almost-buzz-cut-length hair meant it was still perfect, while my unruly, red-brown mop probably looked like a troop of monkeys had been pawing through it searching for bugs. His gray eyes were on me. Hopefully not focused on my hair. And the lips, which were usually set in a determined line, were soft for once. Even vulnerable.

  I tried again. “So tell me something about yourself that I don’t know.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “We’re both aware that’s not true.”

  Although I’d known him for four months, I’d learned very little about him outside the cases we’d worked on together. Here’s what I did know: he always protected me, always had my back, and was always there for me when I needed him. He just didn’t often have the words to tell me so.

  Since my ex-husband had the words without the action bit, I knew which was more important.

  And yesterday I’d met Connor’s family over Christmas lunch. An honor that said a lot about how much he trusted me. But aside from that, the sole time he’d given me a glimpse into his personal life was to make me feel better after a distressful encounter with severed body parts.

  I guess he figured he’d done enough to make me feel better today after my meeting with Vanessa Madison because he stayed silent.

  “Well, what’s happening at work at the moment?” I asked, thinking it might be easier for him to chat about something less personal. He wasn’t a big talker, so maybe we needed to start small.

  “It’s classified,” he said.

  That was true. Everything with our employer was classified. “Not the Taste Society stuff. Your other security stuff.”

  “That’s classified too.”

  “Can’t you speak about it in general terms, without mentioning specifics?”

  He grunted again. This one I took to mean, “Yes, but I don’t want to.”

  I sighed, and this one wasn’t quite as contented as my last. “How are we going to find things to talk about if all of your current life is classified and you don’t want to talk about your past?”

  I guess what I was really wondering was when would he let me past his defenses? If he never did, then he’d always be there for me, and I would just be there. Useless. I wanted to be able to help him the way he helped me.

  “Talking is overrated.” His hand crept lower again to emphasize his point, and my breath caught.

  “Even if you are some kind of demigod who’s ready to go again already, at some point we’ll need to do something other than food and sex. What then?”

  His hand hadn’t stopped, lazily spiraling lower and lower. “Then we’ll figure something out,” he said.

  For a while, I didn’t ask him any more questions.

  When I was once again sprawled out on the soft linen, I tried again. “So when you said you wanted to spend more time with me, was this all you had in mind?”

  Connor slid out of bed and stretched his gloriously naked form before me. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

  Unlike me, he had no inhibitions about his body.

  I flushed. “Careful, schnookums, or I’ll have to take Harper’s advice and concoct creative ways of annoying you.” Harper was his sister whom I’d recently had the pleasure of meeting.

  He paused on his way to the shower, not having the decency to show so much as a flicker of annoyance at my carefully-chosen-to-irritate pet name. “That reminds me, she wants to see you. Is it okay if I give her your number?”

  “Sure. But why is it that your sister would like to have a conversation with me when you don’t?”

  “Because my sister doesn’t have the option of doing what we just did together.” His gaze raked over my figure, which was only half covered by the sheets. “Want to join me in the shower?”

  “Are you serious? I don’t think my legs could hold me.”

  He gave me a smug smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

  Hours later, I drove my beautiful company car—a middle-aged silver Corvette—to my apartment building in Palms and hurried up the two flights of external stairs. I had forty-five minutes to make myself presentable for tonight’s WECS Club function. It wasn’t going to be enough. But today had been a rare chance for Connor and me to spend a lazy afternoon together, and I’d wanted to make the most of it.

  At least I’d showered already.

  I crossed the third-floor stair landing and waved at the security camera Connor had installed this morning. It was his response to a couple of nasty gifts that had been left by my front door in the past week. Probably no one was monitoring the live camera feed, but waving made me feel less weird about the possibility.

  I had to avert my eyes from Santa’s bared butt cheeks as I unlocked the door. My housemate had decided a poster featuring the aforementioned butt cheeks with bright red letters spelling Merry Chrismyass was an improvement over the traditional wreaths. Christmas was now beh
ind us (no pun intended), and today was Boxing Day, but I hadn’t found time to remove it yet. It would have to stay up awhile longer.

  Inside, the apartment was quiet. My housemate was in England visiting his family for the holiday season, so it was just me and his cat Meow. The place we called home was run-down and tacky compared to my new client or boyfriend’s grand residences. It had been built in the 1960s and retained the original kitchen, bathroom, and much of the flooring. Our mishmash of preloved furniture didn’t help. But the price was right, the neighborhood was safe, and the company was first-rate.

  I’d picked Meow up for a cuddle when Etta, my favorite neighbor, pushed through the door behind me.

  “Isobel. We need to talk.”

  She never called me Isobel anymore. My friends and family called me Izzy. Except when they were about to broach an uncomfortable topic or give me a lecture. This didn’t bode well.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry. Can this wait?”

  “No. It can’t. The time has come for me to tell you something. Something you’re not gonna like much, I’m afraid. You might want to sit down.”

  I looked her over. As usual, she was stylishly dressed. Today’s ensemble was a modern A-frame skirt in midnight hues, which ended above the knee, a simple black top, dangly earrings, and white hair pulled back in a loose bun. It was an outfit Connor’s stylist might have picked out for me, except Etta wore it better. But under the clothes, makeup, and cocky attitude, her frame was bony and frail and her blue eyes watery. I felt a throb of dismay. Was it her health?

  I knew she was old of course—in her seventies—but she made it so easy to forget the fact. She was ever elegant, smart as a whip, and had a zest for life that bordered on the wicked. I couldn’t imagine her dear self drained of that vitality. Couldn’t imagine the tedium of my apartment building without her.