Mosquito Bite Murder
Page 21
"Um, yes. I just demonstrated. I didn't have them sink their canoes."
She nodded. "Very sensible."
"Thanks!" I brightened and made a mental note to tell Kelly what Avery had said about me. Sensible! I liked it!
The woman studied the map more closely. That's when I noticed that inside the lodge, the freezer door was open and something human shaped, wrapped in a sheet, was inside.
"Is that food in the freezer?" Avery stepped closer.
"No!" I stepped in front of it. "I mean, of course not. It's fake meat."
The CEO stepped back, her right eyebrow up. "Fake meat?" She looked at Betty Sr., who'd just spit a live cricket into a cup Betty Jr. was holding six feet away. The cricket chirped upon landing. "Are they"—her brow creased as she searched for the right word—"…okay?"
I stepped to the other side to guide her view away as Betty Jr. put the cricket in her mouth and spit it back at her doppelganger. "Of course. A non-functioning freezer full of fake meat made out of eggplant is a very normal coping mechanism."
"Ah." Avery smiled. She looked at the map again before turning away. "Thank you for all you do with your troop."
I could swear as she walked toward her staff, she laughed and muttered, "Badger Butt! Deer End, Rear End. Ha ha ha!" Avery snapped her fingers and started to whistle.
I covered my mouth and ran like hell, making it all the way to the trees before shouting, "Rutabaga!"
The girls giggled behind me. I guess I wasn't dehypnotized after all. Oh well. At least I wasn't spitting live crickets and the CEO called me sensible. Add to that the knowledge that I'd never have to eat a boiled potato again—I'd say things were looking up.
A few days after that, I remembered Hilly's amazing mosquito spray and called her up.
"Hi Merry! What's up?" she asked brightly.
"I just wanted to thank you for that bug spray you had. It worked so well, I was wondering if we can borrow it when we go camping next." I thought for a moment. "You should consider manufacturing it. You'd make a killing." I kind of regretted my last sentence as soon as I said it. But Hilly would know what I meant.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
I looked at my phone. We were still connected. "Hilly? Are you there?"
"Of course I'm here! Where else would I be?" Hilly asked.
I asked if she'd heard the bit about me asking for the bug spray, and there was a pause.
"I can't really give you the formula," she hedged. "Some of the ingredients are illegal in multiple countries."
I laughed. "Yeah, right. Seriously, what's in it? What makes it keep mosquitos away?"
"Well," she said slowly, "there are a lot of different things, but it actually doesn't keep mosquitos away, as much as it keeps them from biting you. They actually die instantly when they land on the skin."
I looked at my other arm. It seemed okay. "Hilly," I warned, "I need you to tell me what's in that spray."
There was a sigh on the other end. "The main ingredient, the thing that kills the bugs when they bite, is a variation of cyanide."
She didn't say anything else.
"Cyanide?" I shrieked into the phone. "You let me spray cyanide directly on the girls' skin? Are you crazy?"
"What?" Hilly sounded surprised. "They're fine aren't they? The cyanide wears off after a week. It's even waterproof for several days, but most importantly, it's a low dose and a variant, like I said."
I relaxed a tiny bit. The girls were okay. But I decided they didn't need to know about the fact that their leader sprayed a toxic poison on their skin. And there was no way in hell this was going to get back to Kelly. In fact, I made Hilly swear that she would never speak of this again.
"I guess Riley was right in warning me," I mused.
I could hear Hilly smiling on the other end of the line. "He didn't make out so well, did he?"
I froze. "What did you do?"
"It's no big deal," she insisted. "I just emptied out most of his Gucci spray while he was sleeping, and filled the canister with sugar water. He probably attracted every mosquito in the state. That's the last time he's going to criticize my concoctions. Bye-bye!" she said before hanging up.
After a moment, I decided that was fair. Riley of all people knew that there were things you didn't do, like draw mustaches on Putin's poster in Red Square, or prank a Tajikistani leader into revealing his cross-dressing tendencies on state run television, or go hunting with Dick Cheney.
And you never, ever, tease a slightly unhinged CIA assassin (who wasn't an assassin) who thinks it's perfectly safe to dose children with a cyanide variant. It seemed to be a lesson he should learn.
With more than a little glee, I pulled out my cell and tapped out his number…
* * * * *
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Leslie Langtry is the USA Today bestselling author of the Greatest Hits Mysteries series, Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations, the Merry Wrath Mysteries, the Aloha Lagoon Mysteries and several books she hasn't finished yet, because she's very lazy.
Leslie loves puppies and cake (but she will not share her cake with puppies) and thinks praying mantids make everything better. She lives with her family and assorted animals in the Midwest, where she is currently working on her next book and trying to learn to play the ukulele.
To learn more about Leslie, visit her online at: http://www.leslielangtry.com
* * * * *
BOOKS BY LESLIE LANGTRY
Merry Wrath Mysteries
Merit Badge Murder
Mint Cookie Murder
Scout Camp Murder (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
Marshmallow S'More Murder
Movie Night Murder
Mud Run Murder
Fishing Badge Murder (short story in the Pushing Up Daisies collection)
Motto for Murder
Map Skills Murder
Mean Girl Murder
Marriage Vow Murder
Mystery Night Murder
Meerkats and Murder
Make Believe Murder
Maltese Vulture Murder
Musket Ball Murder
Macho Man Murder
Mad Money Murder
Mind-Bending Murder
Mascots Are Murder
Mosquito Bite Murder
Manga and Murder
Aloha Lagoon Mysteries:
Ukulele Murder
Ukulele Deadly
Greatest Hits Mysteries:
'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
Guns Will Keep Us Together
Stand By Your Hitman
I Shot You Babe
Paradise By The Rifle Sights
Snuff the Magic Dragon
My Heroes Have Always Been Hitmen
Greatest Hits Mysteries Holiday Bundle
Other Works:
Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the first Greatest Hits Mystery:
'SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY
by
LESLIE LANGTRY
CHAPTER ONE
"On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero."
—Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
No one really liked family reunions. I got that. But when I listened to people complain about it 'round the water cooler, I couldn't help rolling my eyes. I mean really, try it when you come from a family of assassins. Kind of gives "avoiding Aunt Jean's potato salad" a whole new meaning.
That's right. Family of assassins. I came from a line of murderers dating back to ancient Greece. Mafia? Puhleeeese. Ninjas? Amateurs. Illuminati? How pedestrian. My ancestors had invented the garrote, ice pick, and arsenic. And Grandma Mary insisted that the whe
el had actually been devised as a portable skull crusher. I'd tell you the names of some of our famous victims throughout history, but I'd had to sign a confidentiality clause in my own blood when I was five. So you'll just have to take my word for it.
I turned the engraved invitation over in my hands and sighed. I hate these things. We only held them once every five years, but for some reason, this time, the reunion was only a year after the last one. That meant someone in the family had been naughty. That meant one of my relatives was going to die.
As I stroked the creamy vellum paper, for a brief moment I thought about sending my regrets. But only for a moment. After all, it wasn't an option on the R.S.V.P. card. Unlike most family reunions with sack races, bad weather and crappy T-shirts, where to refuse to go only meant you weren't in the ridiculous all-family photo, to turn down this invitation was death. That's right. Death. Any blooded member of the family who didn't show was terminated.
Now, where had I put that goddamned pen? I rattled through the "everything" drawer, looking for the onyx pen with the family crest engraved in gold on the side. It may sound pretty calloused to throw a centuries-old family heirloom in with tampons, fishing hooks, batteries, and ten-year-old packs of gum, but I didn't exactly have the usual family sense o' pride.
I found it behind some broken cassette tapes and dusted it off. The coat-of-arms practically glowed on the cold, ebony surface. Crossed sabers entwined with an asp and topped off with a vial of poison. Lovely. Really sent that warm, homemade chicken-soup kind of feeling. And don't forget the family motto, carved in Greek on the side which translates as, Kill with no mercy, love with suspicion. Not exactly embroider-on-the-pillow material.
The phone rang, causing me to jump. That's right. I was a jumpy assassin.
"Ginny?" My mom's voice betrayed her urgency.
"Hey, Mom. I got it," I responded wearily. Carolina Bombay was always convinced I would someday skip the reunion.
"Don't use that tone with me, Virginia." Her voice was dead serious. "I just wanted to make sure."
"Right. Like I'd miss this and run the risk of having my own mother hunt me down." For some reason, this would be a joke in other families. But in mine, when you strayed, your own family literally hunted you down.
"You know it makes me nervous when you don't call the day you get the invitation," Mom said, whispering the words the invitation. It was a sacred thing, and to be honest, we were all more than a little terrified every time we received one. (Did you ever notice that the words sacred and scared differ only by switching two letters?)
"I'm sorry," I continued lying to my mother. "I just popped the R.S.V.P. into the mailbox on the corner." And I would, too. No point taking any chances with my mail carrier losing it. That would be a stupid way to die.
"Well, I'm calling your brother next. I swear, you kids do this just to torment me!" She hung up before I could say good bye.
So, here I was, thirty-nine years old, single mother of a five-year-old daughter (widowed—by cancer, not by family) and still being treated like a child. Not that my childhood had been normal, by any means. You grew up pretty quick with the ritualistic blood-oath at five and your first professional kill by fifteen.
To be fair, Mom had a right to be nervous. She watched her older sister, also named Virginia, get hunted down by Uncle Lou when she had failed to appear at the 1975 reunion. That really had to suck. I'd been named after her, which kind of jinxed me, I think.
In case you hadn't noticed, my immediate family members were all named after U.S. states or cities (Lou was short for Louisiana, much to his dismay, and Grandma Mary was short for Maryland). It was a tradition that went back to our first ancestors, who thought it would be a cute idea to name their kids after locations, rather than actual names. My name was Virginia, but as a kid I went by Ginny. Of course, that had changed in college when everyone thought it was a real hoot to shorten my name to Gin. That's right. Gin Bombay. Yuck it up. I dare you.
Bombay had been the last name of my family since the beginning. Women born into the family weren't allowed to change their names when they got married. In fact, the husband had to agree to change his name to Bombay. You could guess what happens if they refuse.
Non-blooded Bombays were allowed to miss the reunion, as were children under the age of five. Bombays had to let their spouses in on the "family secret" by the time the first reunion in their marriage rolled around. It wasn't exactly pillow talk. And of course, you weren't allowed to leave the family once you know, or well, you knew what happened.
Most of us didn't even tell our spouses until the first five-year reunion. I guess I'd been lucky, if you could actually call it that. My husband, Eddie, had died of brain cancer four years into our marriage. And even though I'd seen the lab results, I still eyed my cousins suspiciously. And while I'm fairly certain we haven't figured out a way to cause cancer, with my family, you never know.
Roma, my daughter, had been born one month after Eddie died. I'd given her the traditional place name, but rebelled against the state thing. I called her Romi. I smiled, thinking about picking her up from kindergarten in a few hours. She was my whole life. All arms and legs, skinny as a stick, with straight, brown hair and big blue eyes, Romi had given me back my laughter when Ed passed.
My heart sank with a cartoon boing when it hit my stomach. Romi was five. This would be her first reunion. She would have to be drawn into that nest of vipers that is the Bombay Family. Her training would begin immediately after. And in a couple of weeks, she'd go from playing with Bratz dolls, to "icing" them. Shit.
CHAPTER TWO
"We are all dead men on leave."
—Eugene Levine, comedian
The doorbell rang and I automatically checked the monitor in the kitchen. Yes, I had surveillance monitors. Hello? Family hunts us down! Remember?
"Hey, little brother." Despite my weary voice I gave Dakota a vigorous hug.
"You alright?" he asked more with mischief than concern.
"You're joking, right?" And I knew he was. Dak loved Romi almost as much as I did. He just found the whole family of assassins thing amusing most of the time.
"Well, we went through it and survived. Besides, the training is pretty harmless for the first few years."
"Harmless? That's an interesting way to describe turning your kindergartner into a cold-blooded killer."
"Maybe you could write the guidebook! The Complete Idiot's Guide to Turning Your Kindergartner into an Assassin." Dak laughed in that easy way he had about him. Single and thirty-seven, he was handsome and funny. And I should mention that he was single by choice. Dak, like most of the people in my family, had "commitment issues." Personally, I thought they took the family motto a little too seriously.
I rolled my eyes, "Yeah. That would work." Hey! Was he calling me a complete idiot?
"Look, Ginny, it's not like you can refuse to go." He looked sideways at me. "You are going, right?"
"Duh! Do you think I'm stupid? Like I'd let you raise and train Romi!"
I loved my brother. We were close. We even collaborated on jobs. He had taken this whole Prizzi's Honor lifestyle in stride. After three millennia of contracted kills, the family was extremely wealthy, and we all lived off of huge trust funds. In the past seventy-five years, after some smart investing, no one has had to do more than one or two hits a year. So we all lived comfortably. And we got Blue Cross and dental.
Dak eased back in the kitchen chair, rudely devouring my Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. Bastard.
"Look Ginny, it'll be fine. Romi can handle it."
I shook my head. "That's not all I'm worried about."
He stopped eating, and for a moment I thought I might have a few cookies left. "Oh. The other thing. What's up with that?"
"I don't know. You hear anything?"
Dak shook his head. "I heard Uncle Troy almost got busted in Malaysia last year. But he's on the Council, and they don't bust you for almost fucking up."
I snatche
d the Milano bag from him. There was only one left. "Yeah, I haven't heard anything either."
"I guess we just see who shows up and…" He gave a dramatic pause a la Christopher Walken, "…whoever doesn't." (Insert creepy, "dun, dun, dun," music here.)
I looked at him, and not just as treacherous cookie thief. "How can you be so cold? We're talking about our family here!"
"And there's nothing we can do about it until it happens. I just hope it isn't someone we like."
Dak was right. If it had to be someone, I hoped it would be one of the more assholish relations. Everyone has someone like that in their family. Right? There are definitely some folks I wouldn't miss too much.
I picked up my cup of coffee. "We didn't mess up in Chicago, did we?" My mind raced to remember the details.
Dakota shook his head, but seemed disturbed. "No. It was a clean kill. Nice work, by the way."
"Thanks." Our hit had been screwing so many married women that there were plenty of suspects in his death. Of course, we'd done such a good job, the police didn't even consider murder. I smiled, remembering painting the inside of the chain smoking son-of-a-bitch's condoms with pure nicotine (which of course, killed him). That was fun. Rolling each condom up and putting them in the bags so they didn't look "tampered with" on the other hand, was not.
"Maybe it's nothing," I murmured. "Maybe they're going to give us an earlier retirement age." Who was I kidding? Bombays are allowed to retire at fifty-five, although most don't. I mean, Grandma's pushing eighty, and just last week she rubbed out a made man in the Sicilian mob. There's definitely something to be said for loving what you do.