Moments before Oliver, Etta, Dudley, Meow, and I were due to leave, a UPS guy delivered a large parcel. There was a note attached.
Isobel,
Turns out the angry, sultry look really works on me. I was René Laurent’s top pick for the Scandalous Cause calendar.
I also realized you’re nothing like my husband’s type. He tends to appreciate the finer things in life.
Take care, Vanessa
Inside the box was a great deal of bubble wrap and tissue paper, and underneath all that, a vase. At least I thought it was a vase. It was the color of our old carpet, overlaid with ornate white-robed figures and what looked like a goat.
It was hideous.
I had no idea whether Vanessa meant it as a genuine gift, was getting rid of an unwanted Christmas present, or whether the ugliness of the piece was a reflection of her feelings toward me.
Oliver wandered out of the bedroom, Meow clinging to him as if he might abandon her again.
“Holy cow, Iz. That looks like a Wedgewood.”
“A wedge what?”
“A Wedgewood. It’s a famous old pottery brand. Even older than the Queen. And if that’s a genuine piece, it’d be worth at least two grand. Maybe three.”
I stared at him, unsure whether my incredulity was due more to its estimated value or the idea that Oliver would admit to recognizing something so pretentiously materialistic.
“What?” His tone was defensive. “My mother loves them. But then she loves the Queen too, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
He came over and picked it up.
“Careful,” I said, suddenly feeling protective of the ugly thing. A couple grand would go a long way toward covering some of the furniture I’d had to buy.
He tipped it upside down and looked at the bottom of it. “Yep, it’s got the Wedgewood mark on it, see?” He put it down and grabbed the note. “Who’s Vanessa?”
Damn. I could hardly pass that off as a nickname for Connor.
“Someone I did a favor for.”
He whistled. “Must’ve been some favor.”
“It was,” I lied. Then I carried it into my bedroom, laid it down on my new duvet cover, and promised that I’d list it on eBay tomorrow.
Connor and Harper were making cocktails when we arrived. His hands were full, and he wasn’t prone to public displays of affection, but his eyes lit up when he saw me, and that was better than if he’d run over and twirled me around in his arms.
The Tudor mansion included an entertainment room complete with its own kitchenette-cum-bar. How handy. Mae was sitting on a couch with her feet up, a half-empty dirty martini in hand, and a glittery pink party hat on her head.
“It’s time we share our New Year resolutions,” she announced. “Who wants to start?”
No one volunteered.
“All right, I will then. This year I’m going to try to win a prize at the San Bernardino County Distillery Club for my gin, and I’m going to come back to LA for a few extra visits. Since my children could obviously benefit from some more maternal guidance.”
Connor and Harper exchanged glances. Etta and I snickered. Oliver raised the glass he’d just been given and said, “Mine’s kind of the opposite of yours. I will again resolve not to aspire to any levels of fame, and I’ll return to England as rarely as possible because my family doesn’t appreciate my guidance anyway.” Then, bartender that he was, he wandered over to study the liquor collection.
That at least made me feel better about my own lack of resolution. I didn’t want to admit to the duvet cover thing.
Seeing Oliver and Harper in close proximity had me hoping they might hook up. They were both laid-back, playful souls who could be wonderful for each other. But Oliver only had eyes for the alcohol and Harper was thinking hard, trying to come up with her own resolution.
“I’ve got one,” she said. “I’m going to convince Connor to purchase a car that isn’t black.” She punched him in the arm. “What about you, brother?”
He grunted and kept making cocktails.
“If you won’t participate, we’ll have to come up with one for you,” Mae threatened.
“I’ll go first!” Harper sang a little too quickly. “This year Connor will try to be less… well… Connor-ish.”
I smirked. “And he’ll start talking so much that one of us will actually need to tell him to shut up.”
We all snickered some more.
Etta sipped her drink, then held up her hand. “My turn. He’ll invite Izzy to move in with him… permanently.” Everyone oohed. “And then invite me and Dudley too,” she added, “since there’s plenty of room.”
Dudley was stretched out on one of Connor’s designer couches looking very content with himself. I figured that meant he was amenable to the idea.
When we finished laughing, I pointed a finger at Etta. “What about you? I hope your New Year resolution includes no more amateur sleuthing in the coming twelve months.”
She put down her drink with a thud. “Are you kidding me? We saved an innocent man from going to jail, kept a loving family together, rescued a grieving widow and her son, and took down a frigging serial killer! I’m just getting started!”
Everyone laughed.
Except me.
Or Connor, naturally.
Then I noticed Mae wasn’t laughing either. “Actually, she’s not kidding. We’ve been talking about it, and we’re going to revive my old PI firm and go into business together.”
Silence reigned. Harper had frozen with her drink halfway to her mouth. Connor had the clearest emotion I’d ever seen on his face. It was horror.
Then Etta sniggered, and she and Mae collapsed into merry hysterics, clutching their stomachs like they might burst.
Despite the realization that I’d been pranked—again—the sound of their mirth failed to completely wash away my unease.
From the Author
I hope you loved this EAT, PRAY, DIE box set. That way I can rub it in my brother’s smug face since he scoffed at me when I first started writing at the tender age of sixteen. If you want to help me make sure he gets his comeuppance, take a minute to leave me a review or mention this series to a friend who’ll also enjoy it. That’ll show him.
As a small token of my appreciation for everyone who already did this for other books in the series, I drew you this picture of my brother sulking on the floor. Enjoy!
My brother sulking on the floor
Excerpt from Poison and Prejudice
The mob of hot bodies and cold camera lenses surged toward me. A storm of blinding flashes. Microphones threatening to smack me in the nose. And a clamor of voices that made it difficult to hear my thundering heart.
Nope, it wasn’t one of those “Crap, I’m naked” dreams. I was currently acting as an undercover poison taster for the darling of the entire Western world: Zachariah Hill. Of course, since I was undercover, the people behind the cameras and microphones didn’t know my true purpose. If any of them bothered to ask, they’d be told I was Zachariah’s spiritual food guru. One he’d hired to help him get through his tragic breakup with the other darling of the entire Western world: Alyssa Hill.
While the adoring masses held warm, fuzzy, sympathetic feelings toward Zac, I felt none of that. The bastard had insisted I walk with him on the red carpet, and I wasn’t going to forgive him for it just because he had good intentions.
He’d been sure I was playing coy when I told him I didn’t want to go anywhere near his fancy crimson doormat. He was wrong. My wish list held items like earn enough money to fly home to Australia, and keep the cockroaches out of my cookie container. Cameras and carpets weren’t a priority for me.
Why was the silly thing red anyway? If the tradition dated back far enough, it probably had to do with stepping on the blood of your defeated enemies or something.
Trying not to scowl in case any of those cameras accidentally included me in their pictures, I trailed along half a step behind Zachariah—the benevolent j
erk—letting him take the brunt of the attention.
We weren’t at the Oscars or anywhere like that. It was just a film premiere, which didn’t constitute a rare event in Los Angeles. But so soon after the news of their breakup, Zachariah and Alyssa were even more popular with the press than usual.
“No date tonight?” asked a particularly pushy reporter.
Good to know even dressed to the nines I wasn’t about to fool anyone into thinking I was A-list date material. My 5’5” frame was slim but not toned, my hair reddish brown and generally uncooperative, and my blue eyes ordinary. In my twenty-nine years, I’d found people tended to call me cute rather than beautiful. A creepy guy in a supermarket once called me wholesome while he tried to corner me in the canned-goods aisle. I’d shoved a pack of wholesome granola bars at him and hotfooted it out of there.
“Not for a long while I think,” Zac answered, managing to sound both mournful and humorously self-deprecating at the same time.
“Do you still love her?”
I saw Zac smile in my peripheral vision.
“A part of me will always love her.”
If it were possible, the cameras flashed brighter, and I could imagine fans swooning on their couches at home. So romantic. Personally, I thought it was sad. Sad if it was true and yet his love wasn’t enough, or sad if it was the fictitious party line they’d agreed on before announcing their separation to the world.
The woman herself stepped onto the impractical outdoor carpeting. With long, ash-blond hair, power brows, and a silver plunge dress showing off her perfect skin (a lot of perfect skin), Alyssa Hill was the kind of person you couldn’t help but stare at. Her presence conjured up feelings of fear and longing in both men and women alike.
She sashayed over to Zac, forcing me to jump out of the way to prevent one of her spiked heels from skewering my toe, and kissed him on the cheek amid a frenzy of lights. The seasoned actress posed there for long moments, allowing the press to get their fill, then turned to them with a dazzling smile. I took the opportunity to position myself farther away where I’d be hidden from the lenses.
After the strobe lights finally died down, Alyssa Hill whispered something in her former lover’s ear and sauntered to her waiting limo. Judging by the stiffening of her former lover’s posture, he didn’t appreciate what she’d had to say. When Zac failed to move after a further thirty seconds, I stepped up beside him and surreptitiously dragged him toward our own car.
At last we made it to the end of the stupid red carpet, and a valet handed Zachariah his keys. I clambered inside the refuge without pausing for the valet to open my door and waited impatiently for Zac to drive away.
He was moving with exaggerated caution. Or perhaps it just seemed that way due to my own haste. I stopped my fingers tapping on the armrest and reminded myself that this was a good gig. Zac was a nice guy and an undemanding client. The only downside was his fame, but I guess it would be unkind of me to hold that against him.
Still, it was easier to be kind when you hadn’t tottered down a red carpet, narrowly missed losing your toe to his ex, and weren’t running late for the thing you’d been hanging out for all week. And maybe my perception of the whole ordeal was colored by knowing the dirty secret behind the glamor. That at the bottom of the ladder to fame and fortune were a pile of bodies.
All those stories of celebrities doing something stupid under the influence or having their light snuffed out forever by a fatal overdose? Yeah, about a third of those were cleverly disguised poisonings designed to sabotage careers or take them out of the running permanently. Hence the need for undercover poison tasters like me.
We made it a block before Zac stopped the BMW 3 Series sedan beside the curb.
“Would you mind driving? I have a migraine coming on.”
Abruptly I felt ashamed at my selfishness. Here I was wrapped up in my own little world when my poor client was being attacked by a migraine. An excruciating one if the strain on his face was anything to go by.
“Of course. Can I do something to make you more comfortable first?”
“No. Thanks. Just get me home.”
The last time I’d driven a celebrity’s car, the celebrity had been pointing a gun at my stomach, warning me a bullet through the gut was one of the most painful ways to die. Oh, and telling me his clever plan to shoot me at the end of our journey and make it look like a random accident.
This drive was much more relaxing. Except for the niggling worry that this sudden onset of a migraine after a pleasant evening was unusual. His main trigger was stress, which didn’t make sense when he’d been his calm and charismatic self all day. Unless Alyssa had said something atrocious to him before?
I did a quick mental inventory of my vitals the way we’d been taught to check for any early warning signs of poison. Everything felt normal except for a slightly elevated heart rate and accelerated breathing, which was no doubt due to my concern for Zac. But the results didn’t put my mind at ease. Poisoners could use drugs tailored to their intended victim that might not affect another person, and my gene mutation meant I was less susceptible to harmful substances. That was how I’d landed this job in the first place.
I pulled into Zac’s garage at Cheviot Hills, the place he’d moved to after separating from Alyssa, and helped him up the stairs. There was yet another gift basket by the door. Ever since the breakup, he’d been receiving dozens of them. They all had words like “deepest sympathies” and “so sorry to hear” somewhere on the card, but most were thinly disguised variations of “by the way, now that you’re single, we should hook up.” This one was different. There was no card, rendering it anonymous, and nestled among the chrome-colored shredded paper was a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Silver Oak Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon.
Who left a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine on someone’s doorstep?
I glanced up at Zac, thinking to ask whom it might be from, but my words died on my lips when I saw how ghastly he looked. I unlocked the door for him and picked up the basket. “Go to bed,” I whispered, aware that every sound I made was like a dentist drill to the skull. “I’ll get you some water and your prescription meds.” I had to taste both before he could consume them anyway. A potential murderer could tamper with someone’s tablets as readily as their food.
Keeping noise to a minimum, I retrieved his meds from the bathroom cabinet and began the taste-testing routine. Blergh. Tasting medication was a lot less pleasant than tasting the average meal. I washed it down with water, testing that too.
As I went through the motions, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might have missed something in the numerous appetizers we’d eaten tonight. The meds I tasted now, however, were clean, and I hadn’t missed a poison since I began working as a Shade. There was no reason to think I would’ve slipped up. Unless the poison was new or extremely rare. I shook the thought away.
Poor Zac was already in bed with the light off. “Does this migraine feel normal?” I whispered as I handed him the tablet and water. “Anything unusual about it?”
“It’s textbook.” The words came out with a sort of tortured patience.
The textbook answer was reassuring, but my niggly feeling didn’t take the hint and vanish. That left me with a dilemma. I didn’t feel right about leaving him alone, but I had a special reason to leave tonight. One I was loath to give up. “You told me stress was your trigger, but I didn’t think you were stressed.” I tried again.
“Alyssa,” he rasped, then sighed and closed his eyes. “I’ll be fine. Go and have fun.” He knew I had plans tonight.
Shoving off my trepidation and guilt—unwarranted trepidation and guilt, I told myself—I compromised by resolving to check on him later and followed his advice.
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Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set Page 63
