The Maddening Model (Hazards, Inc.)

by Suzanne Simms

  He didn’t like being nervous.

  He supposed he had only himself to blame, of course. He’d made a muck of it with Jonathan Hazard back in the old days. He’d left him for dead. He’d assumed the man had drowned in the Chao Phraya River—any other mortal would have.

  Unfortunately, Jonathan Hazard had survived. He’d lived to tell the tale. And now, nearly eight years later, another Hazard had turned up in Bangkok, Krung Thep.

  “A table for one, sir?” inquired the maître d’ at the door of the exclusive Bangkok restaurant.

  “Yes. A table for one for tea,” he said, looking around the swank room of subdued silk and teakwood, linen and fine china.

  He’d always preferred traveling first-class. He liked first-class hotels and first-class restaurants and first-class women. And he wasn’t about to allow anyone to ruin it for him now.

  If he had to, he would dispose of both Simon Hazard and the Harrington woman. Only this time, he wouldn’t botch the job. This time, he would see it through to the end.

  Five

  The next morning, Simon pulled up in front of the Regent at six o’clock sharp. Sunday Harrington was waiting, one small, soft-sided piece of luggage beside her. She was wearing a simple red dress, a red silk scarf, the same handbag, the same dark glasses and the same expensive leather sandals she’d had on yesterday.

  She looked like a million bucks.

  “I’ve got to admit the lady has style,” Simon muttered under his breath as he opened the door of the Range Rover and climbed out. “Morning,” he said succinctly.

  “Yes, it is,” she replied with an elegant but unaffected toss of her red hair.

  “You’re punctual,” he observed.

  From behind her sunglasses, she shot him a glance. “I didn’t think I had any choice.”

  He reached for her suitcase. “You didn’t.” Then he added, “You don’t.”

  She followed him around to the back of the vehicle. “I assumed if I wasn’t ready and waiting, you’d leave without me.”

  “You assumed correctly,” Simon said, stowing her suitcase in the rear. He turned, gave her the once-over and then made a pointed gesture with his hand. “This outfit is very...”

  She volunteered, “Red?”

  “Actually, I was going to say impractical.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the side of the Rover. “Jeans would have been a better choice.”

  He watched as a flicker of annoyance came and went on her face. “We’re still in the city. Besides, the jeans are in my bag,” she informed him.

  “And a sensible sweater.”

  “Also in my bag.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “A pair of sturdy walking shoes.”

  She was beginning to sound like a broken record. “In my bag.”

  He issued one more challenge. “A waterproof windbreaker.”

  They concluded in unison: “In my bag.”

  “I’m not quite the airhead you give me credit for being, Mr. Hazard,” Sunday retorted on a cool note.

  So, they were back to Mr. Hazard, were they?

  “You’ll be sitting up front with me.” He opened the passenger door for her, just to show he hadn’t completely forgotten his manners.

  “Thank you,” she said as she slipped by him into the front seat of the Range Rover.

  Simon left the parking lot of the Regent, and was soon embroiled in Bangkok’s infamous ten-lane traffic. One car after another darted in front of them, horns blaring, drivers shouting, tires squealing, exhaust fumes spewing.

  He decided to try to make conversation over the din. After clearing his throat, he announced, “Bangkok is sinking.”

  One brilliant red eyebrow appeared over the rim of sleek designer sunglasses.

  Maybe he should explain. “Bangkok is called the Venice of the East, and like its namesake, it’s literally sinking. In some places at the rate of five inches per year.” With one hand on the steering wheel, Simon removed his USN cap, combed his fingers through the hair at his nape and replaced his cap. “Most experts blame the problem on the construction of high-rise buildings on what was originally landfill, and the unchecked pumping of underground water. There are also hundreds of miles of canals and periodic flooding of the delta lowlands.”

  “Perhaps it’s a good thing we’re leaving town, then,” Sunday commented, tongue in cheek.

  Without warning, a vintage pickup shot in front of them. The driver slammed on the brakes, opened the door, climbed down from the cab and blithely began to unload boxes from the rear.

  “Bananas!” muttered Simon, his foot pressing the brake pedal to the floor.

  “Bananas?” echoed Sunday.

  He nodded. “Bananas. Mangoes. Breadfruit. Star apples. All on the way to market.” He released the brake, maneuvered around the truck and cut back into the melee.

  Simon noticed, by this time, that his passenger was sitting with her back ramrod straight. Her hands were folded together in her lap, and she was intermittently wetting her lips with her tongue. The lady wasn’t always unflappable, it seemed.

  “You’re a brave man,” she finally said.

  Simon knew what she was thinking. “Or maybe just crazy?”

  “You’re either very brave or very crazy for driving in this traffic,” she said with utter honesty. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “How do you do it?”

  “No guts, no glory.” Simon clicked on the turn signal, leaned on the horn, stuck his head out of the window on the driver’s side, held up his hand to stop the samlor behind them and gunned it across two lanes of jammed thoroughfare to the exit.

  Beside him, he thought he heard a soft gasp. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sunday digging her teeth into her bottom lip.

  “I’m serious,” she said after a time. “How do you drive in this?“

  He checked the rearview mirror and took the first left. “I told you—”

  “No guts, no glory,” Sunday repeated. Then she gave a funny little laugh. “And I thought it was madness to drive in New York City.”

  “‘We are all born mad. Some remain so,’” Simon said, mostly to himself.

  She finally smiled. “That’s right. You have a saying for every occasion, don’t you?”

  “Just about.”

  He drove in silence for five minutes. Then he turned down a narrow alley and swung into the parking lot behind a church.

  Sunday craned her neck. “What do you call this?”

  He put the Range Rover in Park and turned off the ignition. “Our next stop.”

  She reached up and removed her sunglasses. “Where are we?”

  “St. Agnes’s,” he answered.

  Her next question was strictly rhetorical. “There’s a Catholic church in the middle of Bangkok?”

  Obviously there was. “And a convent. And a medical clinic run by the sisters of St. Agnes. They’re affectionately called ‘Aggies’ for short,” Simon told her.

  The red silk scarf looped around Sunday’s neck had been blown askew. She took a moment to straighten it, and then inquired, “Do you mind if I ask why we’re stopping here?”

  “I have to pick up something for delivery in Chiang Mai.” Simon quickly reassured her, “Don’t worry, it’s directly on our way to Mae Hong Son.”

  “Mae Hong Son—the City of Mist,” Sunday repeated in a faraway voice. “And, for your information, I wasn’t worried.”

  “Good, because they’re badly needed medical supplies for the clinic the Sisters of St. Agnes operate in northern Thailand.” He pointed to the seat beneath them. “You stay here and keep an eye on things. I’ll be right back.”

  When Simon returned ten minutes later, she didn’t appear to have moved a muscle. He’d never seen a woman less likely to fidget. Maybe it was a result of her years posing in front of the cameras. Or maybe she was simply a sea of calm amidst the general chaos of life.

  The box of medical supplies was unwieldy; it was also getting heavy. Sunday must hav
e realized he could use a hand. She opened her door and jumped down from the Range Rover.

  “Thanks. In the back,” he said.

  He shoved the crate between her one small bag and his knapsack, making sure it wouldn’t slide around any more than was necessary—at least not until he had the other passengers’ luggage in place—and shut the rear door.

  That’s when a cool, calm and slightly accented female voice said from nearby, “Thank you, Simon. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

  He turned. “You’re welcome, Mother Superior.”

  * * *

  Sunday tried not to stare, but the woman speaking to Simon was beautiful. Perhaps one of the most beautiful women she’d ever set eyes on—and she’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands, in her professional life.

  Tall, stately, ageless and graceful, the woman Simon had addressed as Mother Superior was dressed in a traditional flowing white habit. There was a plain gold cross on a chain around her neck and a bunch of keys dangling from her waist. Her wimple was large, white and starched; it was straight out of “The Flying Nun.”

  “And who might this be?” she inquired, not unkindly.

  Simon made the appropriate introductions. When he was finished, the woman bestowed a warm smile on her. “Sawat-dii! Greetings! Welcome to Thailand, Miss Harrington.”

  “Thank you, Mother Superior.”

  “I understand you are journeying to the north with Simon.”

  Sunday nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “You have chosen well.”

  She certainly hoped so.

  “We’d better be on our way,” Simon interjected. “I have several more stops to make this morning, and I’d like to be out of the city before the heat of the day.”

  Mother Superior folded her hands in front of her and nodded knowingly. “In that case, I will just be one moment.” She quickly disappeared behind the doors of the convent.

  Simon turned to her and said with a slightly mystified shrug, “Mother Superior must have forgotten the mail. Sometimes I deliver letters to the sisters in Chiang Mai as well as supplies.”

  Sunday glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t think it’s the mail,” she said in a discreet whisper.

  It was a second nun. She was carrying a battered valise in her right hand and an equally battered umbrella in her left. She was small and young. Her plain white habit was identical to the one worn by the Mother Superior, except she carried no keys at her waist.

  The older woman raised her hand, made the sign of the cross and recited a blessing. “May the good Lord be with you on your journey, Sister.”

  “Thank you, Mater,“ she murmured.

  Then the religious superior of St. Agnes turned to them. “God’s blessings and a safe journey to you all.” With that, she disappeared into the convent. The thick, teakwood door shut behind her with resounding finality.

  The young nun looked from one to the other—she seemed to realize she was a total surprise to both of them—and said apologetically, “Mother Superior forgot to tell you about me, didn’t she? I’m sure she meant to. I’m certain she thought she had. It’s just that she’s had so much on her mind lately, so many duties and responsibilities.”

  Sunday stepped forward and said reassuringly, “There’s no need to worry, Sister. We’ll get along swimmingly. I’m Sunday Harrington, another of Mr. Hazard’s passengers.”

  The young woman in the white habit returned a tentative smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to swim, Miss Harrington, but my name is Sister Agatha Anne.”

  Simon reached for the young nun’s valise and stowed it in the back, while she settled Sister Agatha Anne in the Range Rover.

  The newcomer inquired in a sweet and curious voice, “Is your christened name really Sunday?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And were you truly born on the Sabbath?”

  “I was.”

  “‘A child that’s born on the Sabbath day is fair and wise and good and gay.’” Then Sister Agatha Anne blushed. “Gay meaning happy or exuberant, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Sunday.

  “I have been blessed with my names, as well. Our order—the Sisters of St. Agatha—was named in honor of the third-century martyr. St. Anne was the name of the mother of the Virgin Mary.”

  Once they were all settled, Sunday turned to him. “I wonder what the name Simon means.”

  The answer came from the seat behind them. “Simon means ‘one who hears.’”

  “Right now, it means ‘one who speaks,’” he informed them. “Please make sure you have your seat belts fastened. We will be making a mad dash across town to pick up the Grimwades.”

  “The Grimwades?” There were more people joining them? “Who, pray tell, are the Grimwades?”

  Three-quarters of an hour later, she had her answer as the Grimwades joined the expedition. They were a young Australian couple touring Thailand and Malaysia.

  “We’re off to see the world before we’re too old to appreciate it, don’t you see?” offered Nigel Grimwade, a slender young man with slender blond hair who kept one arm around his slender young wife at all times.

  “We’ve never been anywhere but Australia until now,” explained Millicent Grimwade. “You’re both Americans, aren’t you?” she said from the back seat.

  Sunday turned her head. “Yes, we are.”

  Nigel Grimwade spoke up. “Millie and I want to visit the States one day. Don’t we, sweets?”

  She nodded. “Walt Disney World.”

  “Epcot,” he added.

  “Sea World.” Millie Grimwade opened her handbag, took out a crumpled tissue and began to clean her eyeglasses with it. “Have you been lots of places, Miss Harrington?”

  “A few.”

  “You could be a model.”

  It was an innocent enough comment. In fact, it was, in all likelihood, meant to be a compliment. But there was something about Millicent Grimwade...

  The Australian woman put on her glasses, blew her nose on the tissue, stuffed the crumpled hanky back into her handbag and went on, “I mean, you’re tall and slender, and you’re a looker.”

  “Thank you,” Sunday said, not knowing how else to respond.

  The young Mrs. Grimwade persisted. “Have you done any modeling?”

  “A little. When I was younger.” Sunday heard the man beside her snicker softly.

  The next time Millicent Grimwade opened her mouth, she put her slender foot in it. “I suppose when a woman reaches a certain age, she’s considered to be over the hill when it comes to a modeling career. What do you do now?”

  Sunday gritted her teeth and replied, “I’m a fashion designer.” She declined to mention that many models were still going strong in their thirties, and even in their forties and beyond. Mrs. Grimwade looked as if she was barely out of her teens.

  Thankfully, at that point, the visiting Australian couple struck up a conversation with Sister Agatha Anne.

  Sunday leaned toward Simon, and dropping her voice, asked, “Are we picking up any more passengers, Mr. Hazard?”

  “Just one.”

  She studied his profile. He had rather nice ears. They weren’t too big and they weren’t too small for the rest of his features, and they were nicely tucked against his head. For some incredible reason—maybe the heat and humidity had taken a greater toll on her than she’d realized—Sunday had an inexplicable urge to blow in Simon Hazard’s ear, just to see what he would do.

  She gave herself a good shake. “Just one?”

  He kept his eyes straight ahead on the road. “Colonel Arthur Bantry.”

  “You’re going to have a full load,” she observed.

  “A bit fuller than I’d expected,” he said for her ears only. “Sister Agatha Anne was a complete surprise, and the Colonel signed on just last evening.”

  “I suppose we could tell ourselves the more the merrier,” Sunday said philosophically, lifting the weight of her hair off her neck and shoulders. She wished
she’d taken the time to braid it this morning.

  “I suppose we could,” Simon said, not sounding convinced.

  She laughed lightly. “I feel like I’m in one of those Agatha Christie novels where a group of colorful characters meet on a train or a plane or a boat, and someone is mysteriously murdered.”

  “And everybody becomes a suspect.”

  “But, contrary to popular opinion, it’s not the butler.”

  “And it’s never the faithful, overworked, underpaid guide.”

  She arched a teasing eyebrow. “Are you certain?”

  “I’m positive.” Simon shot her a quick sideways glance. “I believe the culprit was a model once, however.”

  Sunday shook her head. “Impossible.” She shrugged and allowed, “Well, improbable, anyway.” She glanced down at the space between them. She’d have to scoot over to make room for the Colonel, which would practically put her in Simon Hazard’s lap. “We’re going to be packed in like sardines.”

  Simon reached over and patted her hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. No one is allowed to kill anyone else in this vehicle, no matter how crowded it gets. That’s one of my primary rules.”

  With that, he pulled up in front of another luxury hotel. A gentleman with perfect posture, wearing a neatly pressed quasi-military jacket—there were epaulets at the shoulders and brass buttons down the front—was standing at attention on the front steps. A small leather satchel sat at his feet. His shoes had a spit and polish to them. He was leaning on a brass-tipped walking stick.

  “Colonel Bantry?”

  “Indeed. And you must be Mr. Hazard.”

  Simon nodded. “I’ll take your bag.”

  “I can manage. Thanks all the same, old chap.” The militarylike satchel was quickly stored with the rest of the luggage in the back of the vehicle.

  “I’ll introduce you to your fellow passengers now,” Sunday heard Simon say to the very proper British gentleman as he joined them in the front seat of the Range Rover.

  Sunday watched and she listened. She made the appropriate responses when it was required of her, but something kept niggling at her. Bits and pieces of a conversation she’d had yesterday with Simon ran and reran in her head.