I'd been fixing up the original home of the island's founder, Cairo Bombay. It was on the other side of the island and pretty isolated. No one ever went there because I think most of the family had forgotten it existed. But I was retired and bored, and my husband, Lex, agreed to help me.
The house had been falling apart, literally. It was built in the 17th Century, and time and the Equator's humidity had not been kind. Still, the outer walls were stone, and it had a good foundation. Over the course of a year, Lex and I had turned it into a gorgeous, ten bedroom house with hardwood floors, two working fireplaces (which I know is weird when you live in this part of the world), and lots of comfy furniture.
For our part, Cy, Paris, Liv, Gin, and I decided to each be additional "relatives" scrounging for the inheritance. We were going to mix and mingle and kill ourselves off too. Each one of us started working on a persona, complete with costumes. When my cousins arrived on the island, I took them through the house, to familiarize them with it. They were appropriately impressed.
Then everyone went back to the main condos, got dressed, and packed a bag. It had to look like we'd just shown up here, like the targets. We met up on the tarmac. That's when I realized that my cousins had apparently taken their costumes from some dinner theater in a remote location that had been possibly cut off from the rest of the world for a couple of decades.
"Um," Gin asked Paris, "what are you supposed to be?"
Paris looked wounded. As the more sensitive Bombay, he took things a little more personally than the others.
"I'm Giuseppe Dijorno. An Italian poet," he said with what could only be considered an insult to the Italian accent and a grand flourish of his arm.
"Dijorno?" I asked. "Like the pizza?"
Paris shrugged. "I couldn't think of anything else." He said this in the bizarre Italian accent. From head to toe, he was dressed all in black with a beret perched atop his head.
"I'm a poor man, so I really need the inheritance money. See?" Paris explained as he turned, showing off patched elbows and threadbare clothes.
"So," Cy said, scratching his beard, "you're a beatnik hobo?"
Paris frowned and shook his head. "I'm a poet! I've had critical success, but as of yet, my art has remained undiscovered by the masses." He sighed heavily. "I may have to die before I become famous."
"Yes. Clearly the world suffers without your genius." Liv rolled her eyes. "You might've gone a little overboard, my brother."
Gin pointed at her cousin. "And you are?" She eyed Liv's voluminous skirts and peasant top. She had a gold circlet around her forehead, and…did I smell patchouli?
"A Gypsy, of course." Liv sniffed. "Madame Angelina. I tell fortunes."
"You're kidding, right?" Gin said. "You two look like you're going to a costume murder mystery night at a bed and breakfast in Idaho."
I laughed out loud. Gin didn't look much better. She was dressed in tight leather pants, a fuschia tank top layered over an electric blue one and neon green stilettos. There had to be one hundred rubber bracelets on her arms, and she had a huge guitar tattoo on her right shoulder.
"Let me guess," I said. "Groupie for Mötley Crüe?"
Gin looked a little pissed off. "No. I'm Tiffany Lauper—a rock star," she said with an accent that sounded like Robert De Niro eating an octopus, and launched into some weird pose that involved her attempting to make the horns of the beast but looked more like obscene shadow puppetry.
"Tiffany Lauper?" Cy asked. "You just combined the names of two singers from the '80s?"
"Your clothes…you look like what would happen if my closet in 1987 barfed," Liv chimed in.
"What?" Gin asked, looking down at herself. "I look totally legit!"
Paris shook his head. "No. You look like you fell out of a Ratt video."
"What are you going to say when the others don't recognize you or your name?" I asked.
Gin shrugged. "I'll just say I was big in the '80s and am kind of washed up now." Did I mention that her hair was teased into a frizzy, blonde cloud? She wasn't going to get a comb through that mess anytime soon. Gin gyrated her hips in a way that would make sailors avert their eyes and shrieked, "Rock and roll!"
"Please stop that," Cy said. He was probably the most convincing. Cy moonlighted as a carney between assignments from the Bombay Council. He had a long, frizzy beard, shaved head, stained jeans, and a work shirt with a label that said: Frank. And because he really was a carney, he would be able to pull off the character without a problem.
"What about you, Missi?" Liv pointed at me, and my other cousins nodded.
"I'm just your average, middle-aged American housewife," I said. "Nancy Johnson, at your service."
"Those are your real clothes!" Paris whined. "You were supposed to have a character!"
"Yeah!" Gin said. "You and Cy are just playing yourselves!"
I held my hands up. "Look, I spent all this time adding the gadgets we need to the house. I didn't have time to do anything more." As the inventor for the Bombay Family, I was the only one who could create and install the apparatuses we'd need to get this done. I was a little insulted that they thought I should do more.
Liv picked at her skirt, and I was almost strangled by a wave of patchouli. "I feel kind of stupid now."
"I die first anyway, guys," I protested. What I really wanted to say was you guys should look more like me.
The hum of an airplane overhead interrupted us. We watched as it came to a stop on the landing strip. The side door of the airplane opened, and the stairs dropped down. We had our first target.
"It's show time. From here on out, we only use our character names," I whispered as we walked to our first guest.
Anderson Smith gave us a look that said he found us distasteful. The way Gin as Tiffany Lauper, Paris as Giuseppe, and Liv as Madame Angelina were dressed, I kind of agreed with him.
Smith wore a tailored suit of expensive fabric that could only have been made in Savile Row and pressed by domestics whose families had been "in service" for many generations. A tall, thin man with gray hair and a pinched face, he walked toward us with purpose in his stride. He was the one we were most worried about. This guy was already very wealthy. Using money as a lure might not work. But here he was.
The Englishman held out a pale, veiny hand to me first. I shook it only to find he held it like a limp dishrag. "Anderson Smith." We introduced ourselves according to our character. I was mildly alarmed when I discovered that Giuseppe had decided to continue to use an outrageous, Italian accent.
Mr. Smith finished shaking, then wiped his hands on a red silk handkerchief that he produced from his pocket. It was insulting, but he didn't seem to care what we thought.
"So," he said in a crisp, clipped accent. "There are others here for the inheritance? I'd thought I was the only one."
Tiffany Lauper pouted through red glossy lips. "Me too!" Okay, whereas Giuseppe's accent was bad, Tiffany's was worse. Her attempt at a Brooklyn accent was so over-the-top it was orbiting Mars as we spoke. I was starting to wonder if we'd make it through the next two days without actually killing her.
"Disappointment flares in the shadows of my soul!" Giuseppe made a dramatic gesture with his right hand. Oh. My. God.
Madame Angelina spoke up in a weird, Romanian accent. "Madame Angelina did not see this coming. And I always know what is going to happen next!" To my horror, she then twirled, sending the tons of fabric from her skirts flying.
I shrugged. "It doesn't matter much to me," I said in my own voice with my own accent. "I'm happy for any money I can get."
Frank (a.k.a Cy) folded his arms across his chest and said nothing. I wondered if this was how he was going to play it. And then I realized he might be the smartest one of all of us.
The plane took off. It wasn't going far. We'd had each person flown down here to a local airport so they could all arrive at the same time. It wasn't easy. But we'd managed it. I figured that it would be a ten minute flight to Quito, where the next
guest waited.
Anderson sighed in resignation to his having to slum it for the next twenty-four hours.
"Does anyone know this distant cousin of ours?" he asked.
"How can a man ever truly know anyone but himself?" Giuseppe asked. His accent was getting so heavy it was weighing down my nerves. And if he kept talking in poetry, my character was going to beat his character senseless.
"Never heard of him." I shrugged again. I was kind of worried that this shrugging thing was going to be my motif from here on out. Oh well. I was the first victim. I wouldn't have to do this very long.
Tiffany Lauper tapped a finger against her cheek. I saw a flash of black nail polish on super long fingernails. "Ya know, I wondered about that too. But then, the Laupers are a huge family. Could be anybody."
Madame Angelina posed dramatically, hands on her hips. "I tried to see into his past with my scrying ball. But the past was a veil I could not see through at this time." Scrying ball? Someone just watched Lord of the Rings. Again.
Frank kept his arms folded and simply shook his head.
Anderson looked at each and every one of us. He'd only been here a few minutes, and I'd bet he figured all this stuff out. Frank would have to snap his skinny neck right here. Oh well. We could dump him in the ocean, and none would be the wiser.
"I find it difficult to believe I could be related to any of you." He put an emphasis on you that made us feel like we'd barely evolved past a planarian with STDs. We all seemed to hold our breath.
"But he is my sixth cousin, twice removed." He made a face. "I guess every family tree has it's…" Anderson looked Frank up and down. "Black sheep."
Frank chose not to respond. He was used to judgment as a carney. If only people knew he had a PhD in philosophy from an Ivy League college. But he didn't really care what anyone thought. Anderson's slight meant nothing.
The plane approached again. We all stood there as it coasted to a stop. Once again the door opened, and the stairs were lowered. A pretty young woman stepped out and stood staring at us. She hesitated for a moment, but then decided to approach us. That had to be brave. At this point, if it were me, I'd get back on the plane.
"Hey!" she said breathlessly as she caught up. The young woman was even prettier up close. Short, glossy red hair in a bob, bright green eyes rimmed by impossibly thick eyelashes. She was wearing a white button-down blouse and navy capri pants.
"I'm Annie." She extended her hand to Anderson. Apparently, he looked a little less weird to her.
Anderson's eyebrows went up, but he took her hand and shook it. Each one of us introduced ourselves. Frank even took her hand and said, "Frank." But then, he always behaved like a gentleman.
"So!" Annie said brightly, "there are more than just me. Good! I was worried about coming to some strange island all alone." She came over and stood next to me. Apparently, she'd decided I was safe too. I smiled at her.
We chatted aimlessly on the tarmac as the plane landed a third time. Each of us insisted we didn't know Mr. Owen and we didn't know each other. Annie and Anderson seemed to relax a little.
A short, dark-haired man got off the plane and walked toward us. Juan Perez was thirty and super hot. He smiled, his teeth perfectly straight and blindingly white. He wore a black T-shirt and pair of jeans. Again, here was another person dressed normally. I shot a look at Madame Angelina, who pretended to be very interested in one of her ten rings on her right hand. That's right. Ten. On a hand with only five fingers.
"Hello." Juan's rich baritone caressed the air. "My name is Juan Perez. Are we all here for the same thing?"
We indicated that we were and once again made our introductions. There were two people left to arrive. This had seemed like a good idea, but the tropical heat on the hot tarmac was brutal. Giuseppe was starting to sweat. Why on earth did he wear all that black? I didn't want to ask, because then we'd be subjected to more of his poetic musings.
The plane landed two more times, offering up Nora Bineppe, a fashionably dressed woman about my age, and William Bukowski, a large, well-built man of forty. William and Nora regarded the rest of us for a moment. Nora decided within seconds that we weren't worth her time and attached herself to Anderson.
William, however, would be a problem. Shrewd, brown eyes watched us warily. He didn't say much for an introduction. Did I mention he was huge? At least six-foot-four, he towered over the rest of us. If I wasn't an assassin, he might've intimidated me.
"Nora Bineppe." The woman extended a perfectly manicured hand toward me. "Senior Editor. Fashion Magazine." She seemed to talk only in segments.
"Which fashion magazine?" Tiffany Lauper asked before blowing a big gum bubble and popping it noisily. Where did she get gum? I wanted gum.
Nora shook her head. When she stopped, every hair fell obediently into place. "No. Not a fashion magazine. Fashion Magazine. You understand now?" she condescended.
"Oh goody." Tiffany Lauper acted like she hadn't heard the snub. "You know, I've always wondered. Is the eyeliner supposed to be on the inner lid or outer?"
The woman looked as though she'd been vomited on. "I don't do things like that."
"Outer," Annie piped up. "You'll look like a zombie if you line the inner lid."
The car appeared just in time. Raoul smiled as he pulled up in a ten-passenger van. He did a good job of acting like he didn't know us. Raoul was the island manager. He ordered the food, supervised the staff, made sure everything was ready whenever the family came out.
"Please," he said. "Please get into the car. I will take you to the house."
* * *
Before our targets had gotten here, I'd given my cousins the tour of the house. They were wisely impressed with all the hidden doors that connected to secret passages in the walls. And every room had been fitted with a large, two-way mirror.
"You did a lot of work," Paris said. I might mention that he had not been dressed as Giuseppe then. That idiocy came later.
"Actually, Cairo already had the doors and passageways. I just had to add the mirrors." Cairo was the one ancestor I identified with most. Although not an inventor, he'd had an interesting life in the 17th Century. Well, I guess all Bombays have had interesting lives. But he was the one who founded our private island and left me the dodo egg to clone. That was special.
Once everyone had become familiar with the house, we'd gone over the plan one more time. I was going to die first. Then my Vic, Nora, followed by Paris and his Vic, Anderson. And so on, until the only ones left were Liv and Annie. It should be fun and go according to plan. But if it didn't, we'd just mow them down with machine guns. Sometimes subtlety is overrated.
Our Vics (Short for victim—Bombays have short attention spans.) were pretty awful. The Bombay Council, currently made up of our parents, handed out the assignments. We never knew who contracted the hits. I didn't really want to know. In fact, I wasn't looking forward to the day when my cousins and I would sit on the Council.
Anderson Smith, the snooty Brit, may have looked like a typical upper class twit. But he was much more than that. An MP in the House of Commons, Anderson was a mole who sold secrets to Moscow. That's pretty bad, but last year he supplied the Russians with the names of five English MI-6 agents undercover in St. Petersburg. All five Britons were summarily executed and never seen again.
Annie Web, the pretty American, was the madam of the most expensive brothel in the U.S. Now, prostitution doesn't really seem like a good enough reason to kill someone. But it wasn't that simple. Annie was a sex trafficker. She brought in kidnapped girls from Third World countries and held them as sex slaves for her clients. Just for that, I wanted to have her die first, and in the most unpleasant manner possible. But she was actually Liv's target, and Liv wanted to save her for last, for the psychological torture of seeing everyone die around her. It was a pretty good idea, but I wondered how I was going to look her in the eye for more than a couple of hours.
Gin had Juan Perez. Gin would die after Paris' target
and then take out Juan. Mr. Perez was the most prolific hitman outside of the Bombay family. A renegade who worked for the highest bidder, Juan killed his targets in the messiest ways imaginable. There's no craft to that…no skill. Anyone can walk up and shoot someone. You have to finesse it.
Anyway, Juan didn't hide or camouflage his kills like we did. He preferred an audience. And he especially liked it if the target had his family around to watch. Last month, in Bangledesh, he murdered a woman who was leading a peace initiative in that country. He just walked up to her and slit her throat, right there in the street. Right in front of her five year old son. I wish I'd gotten him. I'd like to show him what a messy death could really be. I had small explosives that fit in certain moist places and caused a very big boom. But I didn't get him. Gin did.
Cy was assigned William Bukowski. And after looking at the file, I could see why. Bukowski was big—six-foot-four and two hundred fifty pounds…of muscle. He'd trained as an MMA fighter, but that was just a hobby. William was a drug dealer. Actually, that was not right. It gives drug dealers a bad name. William was higher up in the food chain. He was a smuggler, and his specialty was recruiting tourists as human mules to deliver the goods into the U.S.
That may not sound too bad, but many of his victims were actually blackmailed into smuggling the drugs for him. And the only people who paid for it were his victims. In the past six months alone, three different teenage backpackers visiting Mexico, Chile, and Venezuela were busted at those respective airports. All three girls were doing time. And not in the U.S. They were suffering untold horrors in prisons in Mexico, Chile, and Venezuela. All because they were convinced Bukowski was going to kill someone in their family if they didn't go through with it.
The big problem with William was that he was a huge, scary guy. While any of us women could've taken him, the Council assigned him to Cy. Probably because Cy was also a big, scary guy who was trained in six different fighting disciplines. The Council knew he could handle Bukowski, and they wanted to make sure he was really and truly dead.
Cozy Christmas Shorts Page 5
