The Big Fix

by Linda Grimes

  “Ciel, you have to believe me—I don’t know anything about it. If it’s the murder weapon, I don’t know how it got there.” The desperation in his voice was pitch-perfect, but was it real? Jesus. Actors. Who could tell?

  “Who besides you has access to your guns?” I asked.

  “Angelica.” Well, that was hardly useful.

  “No one else? Maid, butler”—did Hollywood stars have butlers?—“other household”—were they called servants anymore, or had I been watching too much Downton Abbey?—“um, household help?”

  “No. The gun safe is hidden behind a hinged bookcase in our—my—bedroom. I doubt any of the staff even knows it exists. We—Angelica and I—felt that would be best.”

  I gave myself a mental head-slap. Staff. I should have known that. But never mind. “Think, Jack. Anyone else? Anyone at all?”

  “No! Unless … well, Angelica and Lily-Ann used to go to the range together sometimes. I suppose—but no. Lily-Ann wouldn’t be capable of … of…”

  I decided to hit him again. “Jack, were you having an affair with Lily-Ann?”

  An even longer silence, followed by a deflated sigh.

  I took that as an affirmative. “Does Lily-Ann know about my ranch? And what I did for you?”

  “Look, I didn’t tell anyone about our arrangement, I swear. Just as our contract stipulates. But … I was with Lily-Ann the night before I left for the ranch, to break it off with her. The whole affair was complete idiocy on my part. I should never have given in to … listen, it wasn’t her fault. She wanted a taste of what her sister had—that’s how she put it—and I was stupid enough to think it would be harmless to give it to her. When I left Lily’s place to meet your driver, I was careful to make sure I wasn’t followed, but … oh, hell. No. No, she couldn’t have.”

  “Forget how unlikely it is. Is it possible?” I pressed.

  “I suppose. Technically,” he said, sounding irritated at where my focus lay. “Listen, you have to watch the Conrads for me. I need to know if they’re going to post bail for Lily-Ann. I’d do it myself, but if the press got wind of it, it might look like…”

  Like exactly what it is? I thought wryly.

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure why I agreed to do it. Jackson sounded not-guilty enough to me, which ought to be enough to let my conscience off the hook. But something still niggled at me. Nigel—and Thomas—seemed to buy Lily-Ann’s story. I couldn’t let it go yet.

  I sighed. Bye-bye, shower brownie points.

  The lobby of the Jefferson, a luxury boutique hotel in downtown D.C., was a nice place to hang out while waiting for Joseph and Elizabeth Conrad to make an appearance. Bright and cheerful, it was busy enough that I could blend in without attracting too much attention, especially with a judicious application of my ability.

  I’d changed auras four times already, so the staff wouldn’t get suspicious about the same person sitting in the lobby for so long. Having taken the precaution of wearing nondescript clothing—nothing that would etch itself into the average observer’s awareness—I only had to switch flashy accessories with each new aura in order to cement the appearance of being a completely different person. I used female auras—different ages and hair colors, but of similar size, so my clothes would fit—and an assortment of bright scarves, chunky jewelry, and prescription-free glasses, which I kept in a plain, small bag tucked beside my chair. A nearby potted plant was tall enough to provide the necessary cover for quick changes when no one was looking. Jane Bond, at your service.

  The Conrads had arrived late the night before, and hadn’t settled into the hotel until after eleven, which I knew because I’d watched them check in. Assuming they wouldn’t be handling any business at that time of day, I’d gone home and grabbed a few hours’ sleep, but I was back by seven a.m., in case the they proved to be obnoxiously early risers. Pushing noon there was still no sign of them. I suppressed a yawn. Sheesh, the things I do for my clients.

  I recognized the Conrads at once when they exited the elevator—their images had, of course, been splashed all over the news along with Angelica’s and Jackson’s. Joseph—Joe—was short, bald, and stocky, but not to the point of stoutness. Elizabeth was dark-haired, tall, and expensively thin. Both were well dressed, but in an understated fashion. More burnished gleam than flash.

  Not looking directly at them, I put my unread magazine back into my bag and casually left the hotel right ahead of them. (Clever, huh? No one would suspect the person in front of them was following them.) Once outside, I dug into my pocket for my cell phone and pretended to text someone while waiting for the Conrads to pass me. When they got into a limo, I hopped into the nearest taxi. And, yes, I said, “Follow that car!” Got an eye roll from the driver, but he snapped to when I waved a bunch of twenties in his face.

  Many hours, several cab rides, and a hundred-dollar bribe to a bored restaurant hostess later, I was sitting at a table inside a pricy French bistro in the Upper Northwest part of town, next to Joe and Elizabeth’s booth, wondering if Jackson would be able—or inclined—to reimburse me for my expenses if he wound up behind bars.

  The Conrads had visited the Smithsonian (Elizabeth had seemed fascinated with the gem collection at the Museum of Natural History, while Joe was more taken by the exhibits at the Air and Space Museum), a bakery (for which my stomach was eternally grateful), and the Capitol building (where they took a tour). The day struck me as oddly touristy for freshly grieving parents. Over the course of the afternoon I hadn’t seen them communicate with anyone other than each other, and even that was the bare minimum.

  I’d been growing less patient as the hours passed. Tracking down restrooms and peeing at warp speed so I wouldn’t risk losing my quarry while on a call of nature was getting really old. Not only that, but the shower was due to start in less than an hour, and I still hadn’t found out anything that could be considered significant.

  Damn it. If I left now, the whole day would have been a great big waste of time. But if I didn’t get to the shower, my mother would kill me. Or worse, sic her pal the Big Guy Upstairs on me. I started to gather my belongings.

  A man in a dark business suit, his gray hair and mustache impeccably groomed, approached the Conrads’ table. He smiled tightly at both of them as he sat. “You have the certificates?” he said.

  Bingo. I settled back onto my chair and sent Billy a rapid-fire text that started out “I need a huge favor” and ended up “I’ll make it up to you, I swear!”

  Then I laid the phone on the table next to my plate. With a few taps of my finger, I set it to record a video. I’d wind up with a movie of the ceiling fan above me, but with a little luck, I’d also have intelligible audio of the highly interesting conversation starting to unfold next to me.

  Chapter 11

  “Are Sinead and Siobhan mad at me?” I asked Billy as I helped him change out of my clothes and back into his own.

  We were in my office, on the third floor of Thomas’s building in downtown D.C. The shower was reaching a crescendo in the party room of the restaurant on the bottom floor, and, to the best of everyone’s knowledge (well, everyone except Billy), I had been there all along, and was currently taking a bathroom break.

  “Nope, not at all. They’re quite pleased to have you owe them a future favor of the unspecified sort.”

  “Should I be scared?” I asked.

  “Shouldn’t be too horrendous. What you should be afraid of is the favor you now owe me,” he said, and paused to nibble my neck.

  “Oooh,” I said with a shiver. “Scare me again.”

  “Later,” he promised, and resumed dressing.

  I’d sworn I would explain everything to him, along with Mark, after the shower. I really didn’t want to go over everything twice.

  “Why’d you have to pick this one?” I said, putting on the dress he’d been wearing as me. “And, come on, heels?” I knew I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but ugh.

  “I happen to like you i
n that dress. It’s short.”

  “It’s too low cut.” Not to mention clingy. I’d bought it for a party back in college, egged on by my roommate.

  “Funny, that’s what your mom said, too. That’s why she gave me this.” He handed me the lightweight, lacy jacket I recognized as one of Mom’s favorites.

  “She just happened to have it with her?”

  “She was wearing it herself, but said you needed it more than she did.”

  I slipped the jacket on and let Billy pin it closed at the neck with the accompanying cameo brooch. When he was done, I reached up and pulled his head down to kiss him. “Seriously, Billy. Thank you for this. You’re the best boyfriend ever. Even if you do still flirt with other girls.”

  “What?” he said.

  “According to your sisters. But it’s okay. Molly assures me that you’re only being polite,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Ciel, I don’t ‘flirt’—”

  I lifted one eyebrow. “No?”

  “No. I may smile at people, some of whom happen to be female. But smiling is not flirting.”

  “It is when you have a smile like yours,” I teased.

  “Thank you. I think,” he said. “Tell you what. For you, I’ll make an extra effort to be surly to all the other girls from now on.”

  * * *

  I was at the shower in time for the opening of the gifts, and was as surprised as Thomas and Laura were to see the assortment of flavored body oils “I” had given them. Siobhan and Sinead looked on like two saints, but I could see the horns beneath their halos.

  Doyles. They were always there in a pinch, but they could never resist making sure you felt it.

  After everyone had a good laugh (especially Laura, who seemed to enjoy Thomas’s initial scandalized reaction), Billy made an entrance, apologizing for being late. Auntie Mo admonished him, Billy dimpled away her frown, and all was well.

  The room was a gloriously kitschy mess of heart-shaped balloons, silver streamers, and cheap paper bride-and-groom decorations. Looked like the trip to the wedding store had been a success. It was perfect. Kudos to Billy’s sisters.

  I was disappointed to see the spread of Thai food had been decimated before I got there. Only the tantalizing aromas lingered, jabbing my empty stomach. I’d barely taken a bite of anything at the bistro, intent as I was on the table next to me.

  “What did I eat?” I whispered to Billy when he came to greet me with a kiss, as everyone naturally expected now that our relationship was out in the open.

  “More like what didn’t you eat,” he said. “You were ravenous.”

  I groaned. Quietly. “Was it good?” My salivary glands were tingling at the thought.

  “Succulent. The drunken noodles were particularly tasty—so soft on the tongue, with just the right amount of heat,” he said.

  I groaned again, and not entirely from hunger. “You are a cruel man.”

  Mark joined us in time to hear my stomach growl, which he graciously ignored.

  “Billy,” he said. “Glad you could make it. Ciel, thanks again for taking care of the details. Great party.”

  Billy nodded to Mark and grinned at me. “Need a tissue, cuz? You look like you might be about to”—there was an infinitesimal pause—“sneeze.”

  I gave Billy a dirty look before answering Mark. “Well,” I said, wobbling, which I chose to blame on my heels. “I can’t take all the credit.” Or any of it, really. “Sinead and Siobhan were a huge help.”

  The two of them were currently holding court at the center of a crowd of young lawyers, under the scowling eye of my big brother. Now that Thomas considered me to be Billy’s problem (yes, that made Thomas a chauvinist, but that was Laura’s problem), he’d shifted his protective tendencies to Billy’s sisters. Laura finally drew his attention back to the presents when she held up matching his-and-her honeymoon underwear—a thong for Laura and baggy boxers for Thomas.

  “Jesus,” Thomas muttered after he read the card that had accompanied the gift, and shoved them back into the festive, heart-covered tissue-stuffed bag Laura had pulled them from. “Um, thanks, Mom.”

  “What? You need to give the boys space to breathe—I want grandchildren,” Mom hollered across the room, and then joined my little group, putting one arm around Mark and one around me. I suspected she may have had a glass or three of wine.

  “You two did a marvelous job on the shower. See, honey? I told you it would be fine.”

  “I’m afraid I left it all on Ciel’s shoulders,” Mark said. “All I did was show up—she took care of everything else.”

  “No, I didn’t. Really. Sinead and Siobhan deserve the credit,” I said.

  Mom beamed at me, obviously not listening, lost in a happy haze now that one of her children was finally getting married. “I’m proud of you, sweetie.” She let go of Mark and tugged on the hem of my dress with both hands. Didn’t help the length at all. “Billy, you put what I said about grandchildren on hold. You got that? First things first,” she said meaningfully.

  “Mom!” I said, giving her my I’m-shocked-you-said-that look, which she ignored.

  Billy nodded dutifully. “Whatever you say, Auntie Ro.”

  After Mom wandered off to mingle, Mark said, “So, are you going to tell me where you were for the first half of the shower, Howdy?”

  Ack. “I … um, I…” Damn, I couldn’t flat out lie to him.

  “What gave me away?” Billy asked.

  “You’re better at walking in heels than Ciel is.”

  * * *

  After the party, Mark, Billy, and I went up to my office. I sat behind the antique wooden desk, borrowing confidence from its size. Billy sprawled in one of the burgundy leather chairs I have for clients, and Mark perched on the edge of my desk.

  Fortunately, no one else had noticed my switch, not even the other adaptors. Guess Mark was just extra observant, probably because of all that spy training.

  Thomas and Laura were on their way to Thomas’s D.C. house with a trunk-load of amusing gifts. The out-of-town guests, including Billy’s parents (with Molly) and mine, had retired to their respective hotels to get some sleep before their early flights home the next morning.

  Sinead and Siobhan were being shown around town by two Thomas-approved (and appropriately terrified) young lawyers from his firm. Thomas had given their names and addresses to Auntie Mo and Uncle Liam right in front of the girls and the two gentlemen in question. And gentlemen they would be, I had no doubt, considering the look Uncle Liam had given them. He was every bit as charming as his son, but tended not to waste it on the young men who wanted to date his daughters. The girls would meet me at my condo later. (Brian had decided the second queen-size bed in James’s hotel room beat the couch in my living room, and was bunking there.)

  “Okay, gather round,” I said after giving the guys an account of my day up until my text to Billy. They both joined me behind my desk, standing on either side of me.

  “I started recording right after Mr. Conrad—Joseph or Joe, depending on who’s talking to him—handed a large envelope to the gray-haired guy. His name was never mentioned, but I got a picture of him before I left the restaurant. Well, kind of.” I showed them the blurry image on my phone, a side view of the guy, with the top of his head cut off. I shrugged off the poor quality. “It’s not easy taking a picture one-handed and without being noticed.”

  “It helps if you’re smarter than your phone,” Billy said, patting my head. I tried to elbow him in the gut but he was ready for me, blocking my arm. “Kidding, cuz. You did great to get a picture at all.”

  Mark took the phone and studied the screen, making a few adjustments with some apps I didn’t know I had. “I can work with that,” he said after forwarding the photo somewhere, and handed it back.

  I started the video. All three of us stared at the spinning fan on the screen as if it would offer insight into what we were about to hear.

  “The handwriting samples?” came the voice of G
ray Hair. The audio wasn’t bad, considering how softly they’d been speaking and the background noise of the other diners.

  “I don’t know why a business document wouldn’t do. She signed those, too.” Elizabeth’s voice.

  “What I do is an art. If you want a copy, use a machine,” Gray Hair said, disdain coloring his words.

  That was when Joseph had taken the letters from Elizabeth and handed them to Gray Hair. “We’ll need those back, along with the certificates,” he said.

  I paused the video. “They were letters from Angelica to her mother—I caught a glimpse of the return address.”

  Mark nodded and started it playing again.

  “Those are very important to me.” Elizabeth’s voice. If she felt any overwhelming grief for her daughter, she controlled it well.

  “Of course.” Gray Hair’s voice. “I can assure you they won’t be damaged in any way.”

  My waiter’s voice intruded, comparatively sharp and clear, asking to take my order.

  I reached over and stopped the video. “That’s pretty much all there is. The man left, and the Conrads ordered dinner. They didn’t say another thing about the transaction. I slipped away as soon as I could to get here. So, what do you think it all means?”

  Mark picked up the phone and replayed the video, holding it closer to his ear. When it was done, he tapped a few spots on the screen. “Just sending it to a guy I know in acoustics.”

  “Well?” I prompted. “Those certificates—stock certificates of some sort, I assume—why would the Conrads be handing them over to this guy? Could they have been trying to sell them to raise money for Lily-Ann’s bail? But in that case, why the samples of Angelica’s writing? Is this as shady as it seems to me?”

  Billy looked thoughtful. “Sounds to me like the Conrads don’t like where some of their daughter’s assets were allocated. What do you think, Mark? Are dear old Mom and Dad trying to fabricate a retroactive stock transfer before the will is read?”

  “Could be. I’ll know more after I find out the background of their companion.”