Chartreux Shock

by Katherine Hayton

  Monica bit on her bottom lip, frowning at the floor for a second, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll just grab a jacket.”

  “No, you’re fine how you are,” Marjorie insisted, grabbing Monica’s forearm and tugging her forward. “The car’s air-conditioned and it’s a lovely day.”

  She kept a firm grip on the younger woman as they walked along the footpath to the car. When Monica saw Fletcher sitting in the passenger seat, she struggled, trying to backtrack and Marjorie let her go. “We know you’re Tyrone’s girlfriend,” she said. “If you don’t want him to see you, then you can get out of the car and walk back once you’ve shown us the building.”

  “Why doesn’t Fletcher just go straight there himself?” Monica stood back a step, arms folded across her chest. “He knows the place.”

  “His mind’s a bit cuckoo after a week in hiding.” Marjorie mimicked a spiral coming out the side of her head. “But if you prompt him, he might know.”

  “I’m not coming, and you can’t make me.” Monica took another step backwards. When Braden lunged for her, Marjorie jerked at the back of his jacket.

  “She’s right. If you take her by force, it’s kidnapping. Just the same as her friend’s done to Duncan.”

  They got back into the car, checking the scant details with Fletcher who suddenly slapped his forehead as he remembered. Behind them, Monica walked back into the house, phone out and thumbs furiously typing.

  “I guess he knows we’re coming,” Fletcher said in a miserable voice.

  “He wants us to come,” Marjorie said, slapping Braden’s shoulder. “Now drive.”

  Like everything else in Hanmer Springs, their destination was close by. As they pulled up around the back, Marjorie checked the street. Too early for most tourists to be out and about but there were a few shopkeepers setting up their trade for the day. “How do we get in?”

  “Up the fire escape and in through the back door,” Fletcher said, pointing. “I’ll go first.”

  “Yeah, you will,” Braden muttered, giving Marjorie a searching look. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to wait in the car?”

  “Quite sure, thanks.”

  She checked her phone just before embarking up the rusting iron fire escape. Regina had sent her a thumbs-up—whatever that meant. Venture forth alone and get him back? I’m on my way? We’re sending out a mass of troops to defend you?

  Inside, the light was muted from a storefront painted white, offering a deal on the premium rental space. Given the dust on the floorboards and the sense of gloom hanging in the air, Marjorie guessed the ‘special low prices’ weren’t as good as the landlord seemed to think.

  They crept along the mezzanine floor, each creak of the floorboards making her heart jump and her throat tighten. She wanted to pull her phone out and shout to Regina for help. Instead, she inched forward, letting Fletcher take the lead.

  When they got to the staircase down into the shop proper, she gasped. Duncan sat on a chair, a hessian bag over his head and his hands tied behind his back. Tyrone lounged on a sofa nearby, its fat cushions leaking stuffing onto the floor while another man—his henchman no doubt—stood to attention behind the kidnapped man.

  At their footsteps, Tyrone jerked his head upward, a smile spreading across his face. “About time, buddy. I was thinking you didn’t care for your brother at all.”

  “Let him go,” Marjorie shouted, hand tugging at the loose skin on her throat. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “I’ll let him go when Fletcher tells me where he’s hidden my drug supply. I mean, good effort with the faking your own death and all, but I know you better than that.”

  Tyrone stood up, reaching down the side of the sofa and pulling out a rifle. “You can either tell me straight off and I’ll send Bazza here”—he jerked his head at the other man—“along with you, or I’ll start shooting holes in your brother until you give me what I need.”

  He lined up the rifle, nestling the butt in his shoulder and pointing the barrel at Duncan’s knee.

  “Wait,” Fletcher yelled. “I’ll take you.”

  Marjorie felt another rush of anger. “You said the drugs were washed away in the car.”

  “I couldn’t risk being left empty handed if Tyrone came calling,” Fletcher whispered, avoiding her eyes. “I mean, look at this.” The young man turned his attention back downstairs. “Leave the goon here and I’ll show you where I stashed them.”

  Tyrone sneered. “But I want to be the one to plug holes in your brother. If I come with you, you’ll be trying to do that to me.”

  “How long will it take?” Marjorie asked Fletcher. “An hour?” He nodded, and she turned back to Tyrone. “If you’re not back here in an hour, your goon can shoot all of us.”

  “What’re you doing?” Braden asked, grabbing her arm and twisting her around. “We’re not going to stay here with that… that thug!”

  Marjorie’s mobile vibrated in her pocket and a shadow passed by the painted street window. Then another.

  “We’ll be fine,” she whispered to Braden then arched her eyebrow at Tyrone. “What’d you say?”

  “Fine.” He shoved the rifle into the hands of his henchman with a snarl. “You lot, come downstairs.” He waited until Marjorie and Braden were standing near Duncan, then nodded to the goon. “One hour then do as the lady said and shoot everyone.”

  “I don’t have a car,” Fletcher said in a worried voice. “And I can’t travel far in my current condition.”

  Tyrone scrunched up his face in disgust. “I’ve got wheels. There’s even snacks and an energy drink with your name on it if you take me to my supply. My clients are hankering for product and I have nothing to give them.”

  They walked into an office underneath the mezzanine and didn’t come back out. Marjorie shot quick snapshot glances of the goon with the rifle, calculating her chance of dying miserably before she reached the door.

  Even a champion sprinter wouldn’t make it in the enclosed space.

  “Police!” a voice called out from above them, echoed a second later by a megaphone standing outside. “Drop your weapons and lay face down on the floor!”

  Marjorie had never been so happy to lie on dirty floorboards in her life. As her nose pressed into the dust, she saw Regina’s boots walking towards her and twisted her head to look up into her friend’s face. “What took you so long?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time Marjorie was let out of the police station, she’d started to think her café wouldn’t open at all that day. Questions were shot at her left, right, and centre until her mind fogged up and she started to disbelieve her own answers.

  Then, just as she thought this was her life now, Regina slid a transcript across the table, asked her to check and sign, and they booted her out of the door.

  Full sunlight streamed down, bathing her in its light. Marjorie couldn’t see from the abrupt change, but she would gladly put up with the blindness in exchange for the comforting warmth.

  “Nice they didn’t keep you,” Braden said, waving from a park bench opposite the station. “They kicked me to the curb over an hour ago. I guess they had you pegged as the mastermind.”

  “Oh, it’s been awful. I started to wish I was actually a criminal just to have something to confess. How many times can I say, ‘I don’t know where the drugs are’ before it sinks in?”

  Braden chuckled and pulled her into a half-hug. “Try doing it all with four hours less sleep than usual.”

  “Yeah, poor baby. Dragged out of bed before noon.”

  Regina walked out of the station and Marjorie stiffened, afraid the woman was about to drag her inside for another few rounds. Instead, she waved and jogged over to them with a concerned smile. “I forgot to say, we still haven’t tracked down Fletcher and Tyrone, so take extra precautions to keep yourselves safe.”

  “Like what?” Marjorie stared up in confusion. “Fletcher knows where I live and work and it’s not like I can move to another location. My ki
ttens will wonder where I am as it is.”

  “Just double check no one’s following you. Keep an eye out for strangers or people behaving oddly near you.”

  Braden started laughing and soon neither of them could stop. “What does that even mean?” he spurted out. “Don’t get in a stranger’s van even if they offer you chocolate.”

  “Or puppies. Or kittens,” Marjorie said as her giggles tapered off. “But thanks for the warning.” She added an eyeroll for punctuation.

  “Where’s Duncan?” Braden asked. “The sergeant just gave me a steely glance when I asked him.”

  “He’s at the clinic getting a check-up or at home, resting. Speaking of which”—Regina aimed her finger at Marjorie’s face, then Braden’s—“you two should also do that.”

  Marjorie disentangled herself from Braden’s arm with a pang of regret. “I’m heading home right now.”

  “And I’m coming with you. Since the other options don’t sound safe, I can at least keep you company until the bad guys are arrested.”

  “How did Fletcher go from a victim to a bad guy in less than a week?”

  “Through foolish choices,” Regina said grimly. “And sticking together is a good idea. I’ll pop by when I’ve finished my shift here to check on you.”

  When they pulled up outside the café, a row of worried kittens was lined up on the windowsill, staring out. “Poor babies,” Marjorie said as she hurried through the doors. “I’m sorry to leave you alone for so long. I promise I only meant to take a few minutes.”

  The gulf between now and the morning was so wide it was hard to believe it was still the same day.

  While she turned on the coffee machines and stared in dismay at her cabinets full of the morning’s baking, Marjorie took a few deep breaths, centering herself.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Cecelia called out, fragmenting her calm. “I’ve been up here a dozen times only to find the sign with a scrawled message that you’d open later. I began to think later meant sometime next week!”

  “Sorry about that,” Marjorie said, winking at Braden. If he thought he was getting her to himself for the afternoon, he had another think coming. “I had some urgent business and got quite caught up.”

  “That’s fine,” Cecelia said with a magnanimous tone completely unlike her. “I’m just relieved I didn’t have to go an entire day without one of your wonderful coffees and scones. Not to mention a few minutes petting with a ragdoll.”

  Chaplin’s head jerked up, and he trotted over as though she’d called his name. “Steady on,” Marjorie said with a laugh, feeling giggly. “At this rate, I’ll have to bring over an adoption form.”

  “Oh, we’re not there yet,” Cecelia said, spraying hand sanitiser on her fingers and rubbing them briskly. “I think I’m destined to be like a kitten grandmother. Happy to visit but always leaving them with someone else at the end of the day.”

  “Oh, no.” Marjorie stared out the side window in disbelief. “I swear, that kitten is driving me bonkers.”

  “What’s that?” Braden walked over and stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder.

  “Houdini.” She pointed to his face staring out from Esme’s window. “He’s the whole reason I got in this mess today. How on earth does he escape all the time? I’ve been over the studio from top to toe and can’t find how he gets in there.”

  “Do you want me to—”

  “I’ll get him,” Marjorie said with a sigh, pulling off her apron. “Could you look after the till while I’m out? And serve up any customers.”

  “Leaving me in charge of the giant coffee machine,” Braden teased, tossing a wink towards Cecelia. “We all know what that means.”

  Marjorie retraced her steps from the morning, unlocking the back door and almost colliding with the stepladder. “We won’t be needing you again,” she said in an annoyed voice, folding it up and resting it against the wall.

  In a louder voice, light and airy so the Chartreux wouldn’t think she was upset, she said, “Esme’s housed enough unwelcome guests this week without adding a naughty kitten.”

  She walked through to the massage room, scooping up Houdini before he could perform yet another magical escape.

  A man thudded onto the floor behind her. Tyrone. Fletcher’s legs wiggled as he tried to let himself down more gently through the trapdoor. A duffel bag was slung over his shoulder.

  At once, Marjorie realised her mistake. Where else would Fletcher have hidden the drugs if not here? He could hardly have stashed them at home or in the submerged car. Anywhere else along his route back to the township would have left them prey to the elements.

  “Let me go,” she said in a small voice, cradling the kitten close to her chest. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see you.”

  “You won’t need to pretend anything at all, doll.” Tyrone strode a few steps towards her. “I’ve had enough of you poking your nose in.”

  “Hey, now. This is nothing to do with her,” Fletcher called out. “Just let her go back to the café. You’ve got what you wanted.” He pulled off the duffel bag and dropped it on the floor.

  “What I wanted?” Tyrone spun on his heel, his face contorting into an expression of pure rage. “I wanted to keep doing business the way I had been. The way I should be now if my lookout had kept his mind on the job.”

  “It’s not my fault the police were on your trail,” Fletcher said, visibly trembling. “Giving you a two-minute warning they were on their way wouldn’t solve your problems. They swooped on four houses simultaneously. You were so far onto their radar they couldn’t see anything else.”

  “Well, we’ll never know because you didn’t give us a chance.” Tyrone edged towards Fletcher, pulling a switchblade out of the back pocket of his jeans. “The one thing I hired you for—”

  “You didn’t hire me! You blackmailed me. And it wasn’t one thing. I had to act as your lookout and store a multitude of drugs in my home. The place I lived in. If the police had raided me, I’d be looking at twenty years or more!”

  “And you’d deserve it, you little rat.”

  “I’m not the rat in your organisation,” Fletcher said in a tight voice. “If you want to know why the police knew about your entire organisation, you should look closer to home.”

  Tyrone lunged, the knife blade slicing through Fletcher’s shirt and raising a thin line of dark red across his chest.

  “Don’t!” Marjorie called out, trying to shelter the kitten and pull her phone out. “You can leave now. No one else needs to be hurt.”

  “But I want to hurt him,” Tyrone growled. “I want to hurt him so bad.”

  “Yoo-hoo.” Braden’s face appeared through the back door. “Are you—?”

  The joy fell off his face as he took in the scene in front of him. He tried to step back, but Tyrone skipped over and grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him inside.

  “Well, well. Looks like we’re going to have a party,” he said as a mean smile stretched his lips thin. “Is there anyone else on their way or is the gang all here?”

  Holding the knife to Braden’s throat, Tyrone manhandled him into the massage room, pushing him into the corner near Marjorie before shoving Fletcher inside to join them. He pulled open cupboards and drawers, throwing out a thin rope that Esme used to hang towels from on rainy days.

  “Tie them up,” he ordered Fletcher. “Nice and tight.”

  While Tyrone levelled the knife at him, Fletcher did his bidding. Houdini jumped out of Marjorie’s arms, appearing confused and retreating into a corner.

  “Stiffen your muscles,” Braden whispered out of the side of his mouth and she tensed her arms while Fletcher looped the rope around them. With so many loops and knots, she soon lost hope it would make any difference.

  “Now, you. Back up against them.”

  Tyrone bound Fletcher’s wrists then pulled the rope through until the three of them were back to back, tied tightly together.

  “Not the best job in the world but it�
��ll hold you long enough,” he said, smashing a bottle of massage oil on the floor.

  As he took a lighter out of his pocket, Marjorie understood he meant to set the room on fire. The ropes wouldn’t hinder the three for long, but with flames raging, they mightn’t be able to beat the smoke.

  “No,” she cried out, struggling in earnest. “You can let us go. Nobody needs to know anything.”

  The faint creak from the back door leant her renewed hope. Hadn’t Regina said she’d stop by? If that was her now, they just needed to keep him occupied a few minutes more and they might be rescued.

  “What will it take to let us go?” she yelled, hoping to muffle the noise of footsteps. “We’ve got money. And cupcakes.”

  Tyrone slapped his knee and bent over laughing. “Cupcakes? Unless you’re baking them with some extra ingredients, I don’t think so.”

  When he stood up again, Cecelia slipped into the room behind him. She was rummaging in her purse, her face stricken.

  Tyrone heard the noise and turned, receiving a spray of hand sanitiser straight in the eyes. While he yelled, temporarily blinded, Marjorie hauled herself and the roped companions over to him, kicking at his ankles.

  He yelped and hopped on one foot, jumping backwards. Houdini shot forward, climbing up his body like he was a cat tree, and digging his claws into the man’s face.

  “Kick his legs out,” Marjorie screamed as the roped trio twisted until she couldn’t reach him. Braden grunted with effort and soon Tyrone was on the ground.

  “He’s got a knife!” Fletcher yelled at the astonished Cecelia. “In his front pocket!”

  She reached down, quickly flicking it free, then standing and cutting through their ropes.

  “No,” Tyrone said, stumbling to his knees, blood and tears streaming down his face. “Wait…”

  Regina hammered on the front door of the studio. “Police! Open up!”

  Wrestling the cut ropes off her body, Marjorie undid the locks, opening the door to her friend. “The one on the floor,” she said, pointing. “He’s the head drug dealer.”