Greatest Hits Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

by Langtry, Leslie

  I looked around from my mental meanderings to find the boys gone. Oh well. Where could they go? We live on a small, private island off the coast of South America.

  Speaking of mental fragmentation - I’ve been experiencing that a lot lately. Maybe it has something to do with being 45. Or it could be that I haven’t had sex in a long, long time. Being widowed will do that to you. Well, that and the isolation of being on an island no one but my immediate family lives on. Or it could be the bizarre nature of my work. Besides killing people for a living, I’m a bit of an inventor. It’s my only creative outlet. And it was one more service I could offer the Bombays.

  What do I invent? Oh, this and that really. Hairdryers that can blow your head off, lilies that can suffocate you, explosive jockstraps . . . the usual bric-a-brac I guess. My mind began to meander again and I started thinking about Pop Tarts. I LOVE Pop Tarts. But only the chocolate fudge ones. I could eat those for every meal.

  The Pop Tarts made me think of Kleenex, which reminded me that I still had a few finishing touches to make on my latest explosive device. I headed for the lab.

  “Mantisnuts,” was the secret word I spoke into my security system. The door popped open and I went in thinking it was time to change my password. Maybe something like bananaface. Did praying mantis have testicles? I wasn’t sure. At least in the figurative sense they did. It takes balls to make love to a woman you know will bite your head off afterward.

  On a table in the middle of the room was one of those Wacky Wall Walkers. Remember those? Real big in the ‘80’s. I had several back then. Anyway, for those of you who are big hair and shoulder-pad challenged, they were these sticky little octopuses (octopi? What is the plural anyway?) you threw at a wall or sliding glass door (sliding glass doors were also very big in the ‘80s) and it kind of flopped, ass over, um, tentacles all the way down the wall. You’d think something like that would be a failure, wouldn’t you? But the inventors of that stupid little toy (did I mention that I owned several?) made millions. You never know what will hit it big.

  It was with that in mind that I decided to work with the gummy little bastards as some sort of explosive device. Remember Tom Cruise as Ethan Hunt in Mission Impossible? The first one – not the crappy sequels. Anyway, he had that stick of gum he just had to fold in half and stick on the aquarium at that restaurant in Prague and it blew up? Of course, it was ridiculous. Have you ever tried to fold a stick of dry gum in half? It snaps in two, doesn’t stick to itself - doesn’t stick to anything really, so it wouldn’t have worked in real life. But that’s okay cuz I liked the movie.

  The trick with the Wacky Wall Walkers was to get just the right compound that would ignite as it struck a solid surface, and wouldn’t affect its inherent gumminess. I didn’t want to overdo it, but I wanted something that would do the job. I wasn’t sure what the job was yet, but it didn’t matter. I loved working in my lab. I could work with whatever I wanted and the family didn’t give a damn. Ha.

  An hour later found me behind my blast shield as I blew up my fifth piece of glass-coated dry wall. I was having a pretty good time too. That is, until the alarm went off. I’d set it to high because I wanted to know if anyone came into my lab unannounced.

  “Hello, Mississippi.” York Bombay stood in the doorway. I couldn’t stand that man. My mom’s cousin York was a creepy old dude. Of course, his father, Lou, was much worse. Thank God he’s still locked up with Grandma and the other former Council at that maximum-security nursing home in Greenland. I folded my arms across my chest and made up my mind to definitely change my password. How the hell did he get it, anyway?

  “What’s up, Uncle York?”

  He forced a grin and reached over to fondle Charo from my b-list bobble head collection. I made a mental note to scrub them with Clorox later.

  “Well, my dear, the Council requests your presence. Tonight at seven.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Canada is like living in the upstairs apartment over a really cool party you weren’t invited to.”

  - John Stewart, The Daily Show

  I ground my nails into my arms to keep from reaching for the remote control on my top shelf that could electrocute him. Then I tried not to smile thinking about that.

  You see, York’s been pissed off at me since I had to deal with his favorite nephew, Richie, one year ago. That’s when I electrocuted the old Council too. I’d secretly installed a mechanism in all five members’ elbows under the pretense of getting their biometric info. It was kind of a backup plan, but it came in handy when the Council kidnapped my favorite cousin, Gin’s daughter and my generation was locked into a sort-of Mexican standoff with the old guys. My little invention took them out and they still don’t know why. In fact, the new Council didn’t even raise their eyebrows when I injected them with the same device. Of course, they thought I was just giving them malaria shots (never use the same lie twice – it always backfires). I’d say what they don’t know won’t hurt them, but in this case it actually will.

  “Fine. I’ll be there.” I said stiffly. I watched him walk out of my lab and did that little full-body shake you do when you walk into a spider web. Then I changed my password to deaduncleyork.

  “What do you mean, you got me on Survivor?” I was in shock from what the Council just told me.

  “I called an old friend of mine,” my mother explained. “You were a shoe-in.” She smiled like she’d just told me I looked nice in this shirt (which is usually followed up with why can’t you find a man/woman/dog? That’s right, my mother would rather see me as a lesbian instead of single). “And it’s Survival, not Survivor, dear.”

  “What?” I asked.

  Mom smiled at me now like I was about to get on a special bus to go to a special school. “It’s a brand new Canadian show. But it’s pretty much the same thing as Survivor.”

  I folded my arms over my chest, “You got me onto a cheap, Canadian knock-off of Survivor? Are you nuts?” It was an odd question, considering that most of the time people thought I was nuts.

  Aunt Carolina nodded. “Of course we are. But it’s a good assignment nonetheless.”

  Huh?

  Mom added, “I think it will be good for you. You should get out more – meet people. And you are a bit on the pale side dear. A little sun will make you look healthy.”

  I rolled my eyes and thought about the remote control in my workshop. No, I had to save that for when I really needed it. And in this family that usually meant when your relatives pointed guns at you.

  “Is there really a job? Or is this another one of your blind date schemes,” I said. “Cuz I’ve got to admit, you really went above and beyond on this one.”

  Uncle Monty spoke up, “Yes, Mississippi. It really is a job. An important one too. You are the only one who can do it.”

  I crossed my arms. “Cut the flattery and tell me the truth.”

  The Council members all looked toward the media booth, where I noticed York was struggling with the a/v equipment. I hated when they tried to do stuff without me. Most of them were still afraid of computers.

  “I got it!” York called out.

  The big screen came down from the ceiling. Then it stopped midway and went back up again. I threw up my hands and went to the booth to straighten everything out. I had a knack for technology. It’s one of the things I really liked about myself. Well, that and the ability to hang four spoons off my face at one time. I worked my whole freshman year in college to be able to do that.

  “You guys should spare me the drama and just let me do this.” I muttered to myself as I pushed the right buttons to make the screen come down and the Power Point presentation run. I’m sure York heard me, but wisely chose not to respond.

  I rejoined the Council, who acted like I didn’t have to bail them out . . . again. On the screen was the photo of a man about my age. Reasonably attractive, with dark hair and a nice smile, this guy must be the Vic (the family’s nickname for our victims), I thought.

  �
�Isaac Beckett.” Uncle Pete took over. I liked Uncle Pete. He had a neat, rumbly sort of voice that was warm and comfy.

  “Our client believes Beckett is an arms dealer who knows the names of several undercover CIA agents and has threatened to reveal his list to some rather unfriendly nations. He went missing a month ago and through some genius research on Burma’s behalf,” he nodded to his cousin Burma (an Englishman), “we found that he’d gotten onto this show.”

  “So why do I have to get on the show? Can’t we just take him out before they ship these idiots to wherever?” I didn’t want to go on Survival, dammit. I wanted to stay at home, making cult toys from the ‘80s explode.

  Mom gave me that look again. “Because we still don’t know where he is and won’t until he ends up onsite.”

  “Okay,” I shrugged. “I’ll just go and take him out after the show wraps.”

  Monty shook his head. “For one month, he’ll be inaccessible to us and have full access to a television crew. We can’t risk the fact that he could leak information to millions of people. Information that should be buried with his dead body.”

  It’s funny how my family talks. To someone not familiar with the Bombays, our conversation might seem a tad threatening.

  “And you want me to be a contestant on the show and take him out.” I waited for them to nod like my bobble head dolls. “Except that you forget, I’d have to kill him in front of millions of viewers, worldwide. How, exactly, do I do that?”

  Burma’s crisp accent cut in. “That is why you are the only one for this job, Missi. As an inventor, you will most likely be able to stay on the programme while others are voted out. And you can figure out a unique way to kill him that will look like an accident. That is, if he is who we think he is.”

  “And it’s not millions of viewers, dear,” Mom said. “It’s more like thousands, actually.”

  “Wait a minute.” Sometimes my brain processed information at lightening speed. This, however, was not one of those moments. “What do you mean if?”

  Mom sighed as if I were a complete idiot. “We already told you – our client isn’t entirely sure Beckett is a bad guy.”

  That’s weird. I’ve never heard of a Bombay assignment that wasn’t pretty clear cut. “So do I kill him, or not?”

  Mom smiled. “We’ll let you know. Basically you’ll be on the show to keep an eye on him until we get more information.”

  It was hard to digest this information. I guess what they were saying made sense, but it still pissed me off. I like a good reality television show like anyone else. And like anyone else – I’d rather watch it at home, sitting on my couch, sipping red wine with the air conditioner on.

  “You have some time to prepare before you’re needed in Toronto. I’ll e-mail you the dossier on Beckett and everything I have on the show.” Mom winked at me. It was as if she was a normal mother talking to her daughter. Not one assassin ordering her daughter to stalk and maybe kill a man.

  Back in my lab, I continued to blow up panels of dry wall but my heart just wasn’t into it. I quit early and made my way to my apartment in the main building on the island.

  My workshop is sacred to me – a place of peace and quiet. . .well, except for the explosions and stuff. I have a lot of strange paraphernalia in there but mainly that is for inspiration. From the stuffed black jaguar to my collection of A-Team DVD's to my “Hang In There” poster featuring an adorable kitten hanging from a tree – it all makes perfect sense.

  My home, on the other hand, is different. Being strange is one thing. Letting that impact my kids is another. The boys and I have a great condo on the island. And this may sound weird, but I’ve worked really hard to make our living space look totally normal. It was tough at first, since it was completely against my nature to have fine art, leather furniture and Tiffany lamps, but I managed. I used a lot of color on the walls to compensate.

  I just didn’t want the boys to grow up too weird. They lost their dad before they were old enough to remember him and they lived on a remote island where they were trained since age five to be assassins. A little normalcy was required.

  Monty and Jack were sitting on the couch playing video games as I came in. Neither of them looked away from the screen, but both shouted, “Hi, Mom.”

  The fact that they looked like two kids from opposite sides of the gene pool always got people’s attention. Monty resembled his father, Rudy, in looks and disposition. He was more cautious, more intellectual and at times could be more serious than his brother. Jackson’s red hair was a recessive Bombay trait that skipped every generation. His shorter, athletic build came from my dad. His wicked sense of humor and penchant for getting in trouble came from me.

  And I loved them like no other mother could. For seventeen years, they’d been my whole life. It would be really tough to give them up for college in the near future. Then I’d be alone. Huh. I never thought about that before. I hastily pushed that thought from my mind.

  It occurred to me that I’d have to leave the boys here for a month while I was on the show. That was an unpleasant idea. The boys had just turned seventeen and were hell on wheels. If we had wheels in the jungle, that is. There was no way I could leave them.

  I toyed with making Mom watch them, sending them to live with their father’s parents in the States, a brief stint in military school or possibly just rendering them unconscious for a month. I could do that, but there were some side effects involved and I didn’t want them to have excessive facial hair or golf ball-sized warts.

  I pulled a beer from the fridge and sat down next to them on the couch. Figuring out what to do with two adolescent, hormonal, teen-assassins would be worse than doing the damn show. Either way, I was pretty sure that the one person who wouldn’t survive in both cases was me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Diplomacy is the art of saying ‘Nice doggie’ until you can find a rock.”

  - Will Rogers

  I was up early the next morning, doing my usual jog around the island. Santa Muerta’s pretty small. It usually took about an hour and a half to run the sandy beach perimeter. Jogging always helped me think. I didn’t know if it was because more oxygen was going to the brain or whether I was just jarring it into action, but I don’t question anything that works. Oh yeah, and I do it for the exercise too.

  I’d never had good luck with exercise. Yoga twisted me into so many knots I spent a week at a chiropractor’s in Florida funding the doctor’s summer home in Aspen. That time I tried aerobics I ended up breaking my coccyx (the doctors still scratch their head over that one). I swam for a while. We had a pool on the island in addition to the ocean. But that backfired when I was attacked by sharks. In the pool, no less. I always suspected Jack and Monty of that one but could never prove it. Other attempts proved disastrous, from general calisthenics (I got shin splints from push-ups. Apparently I was doing them wrong), to Tai Chi (did you know that howler monkeys consider some of those movements very threatening?) but nothing seemed to work as well as jogging. It was boring as hell, but it did the job.

  And speaking of jobs, this assignment had me worried. Because of the other work I do for the Council, I haven’t had a lot of fieldwork in the last five years. And my isolation on Santa Muerta had kind of turned me into a hermit. I could be social with the best of them, but really only for short periods of time. How the hell was I going to spend thirty days, 24/7, with a diverse group of Canadians? Is that an oxymoron? A diverse group of Canadians?

  So, I guess I was saying I was a rusty, anti-social assassin. Neither of which would lend itself well to this particular hit.

  Another thing that bothered me was the fact I didn’t know what kind of environment I’d be in. The last couple of Survivor shows took place in the Arctic Circle and Gobi Desert. And since this was the first season of the Canadian program, I wasn’t sure what they’d do. With my luck, they’d maroon us on the Bering Strait.

  At least Burma was right. My being an inventor could make things eas
ier. I had no doubt I could come up with ways to make my team’s life a little better, and that would keep me on the show longer. Making stuff a la MacGyver (damn, I miss that show) came naturally to me and I loved doing it. The only problem was, I wouldn’t have any tools with me, nor would I know where we were going until they threw us off the boat.

  I was just about to the bungalows and still had no ideas, when I spotted two familiar figures sitting in the sand. Changing direction, I headed right for them.

  “Mom– ” I plopped into the sand beside them – “Aunt Carolina, what are you doing here?”

  My mother and aunt smiled at me serenely. For a moment, I wondered if they were on something. Shit. I bet they found my little cannabis garden. What? I’m saving it up in case I get glaucoma someday.

  Mom giggled and Carolina followed suit. There was a faint whiff of herb mingling with the sea salt air. Both women wore very modest swimming suits and, by the numbers on the bottle laying in the sand, a thick, impenetrable force field of sunscreen.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Mom answered. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, it’s always a lovely day here. The weather is perfect year-round.” Alright, so maybe I didn’t have to be so contrary.

  “Are you looking forward to the job?” Carolina beamed.

  I crossed my legs in front of me. “No, not really.”

  My darling mother ignored my comment. “Carolina was talking about her new granddaughter, Sofia. She just got her first tooth.”