Legitimate Lies

by Cosgrove, Julie B;

  Glenda’s lips inched up. “Good. There are two rather obnoxious paparazzi to our left. They were on the plane. Work for a bloody American rag, no doubt.” She eyed him through the rims of her glasses.

  The clerk bobbed his head. “How may I help?”

  “Back way out of here?”

  He smirked and lifted the counter. “Step this way. You can go back and through the office to the left. The door will lead to the car park. Yours is the navy blue BMW on the first row.”

  Glenda took the keys into her hand and eased me forward. The young agent extended his hand. “Steady on, miss. Mind your step.”

  I placed my fingers in his as I traipsed through the entrance. We weaved around the maze of desks, computer terminals and office chairs to a glassed entry with “Employees Only” painted backwards upon it. Out into the cool, damp London air, Glenda and I hugged our raincoats as we rushed to the BMW. I heard a car door click as we approached.

  “Get in. Hurry.”

  Glenda’s tone sounded insistent. I obeyed her without any question. “Right.”

  As I slid in, another familiar voice replied from the front. “Off we go then. What shall it be, bubble and squeak or a wiener on a stick?”

  I gazed at the lanky, flaxen-haired guy from the flight in the driver’s seat, of course on the right-hand side. “You!”

  He tipped an imaginary cap. “At your service, Mrs. Manning. Welcome to London.”

  Glenda chuckled. “The NCA and Interpol work together. Andrew is Interpol, don’t you see? Now, shall we lose those chaps just a tad, Andrew?”

  He adjusted the rearview mirror. “Absolutely.”

  “Just a tad?” I whipped my head back and forth between them.

  “Of course, dear. We do want him out in the open.” Glenda patted my knee. “But you’re perfectly safe. Which is why we’re here with you, isn’t it now?”

  Ah, they had a plan. The tension in my throat and neck began to unwind. Still…I was fully aware of Robert’s capabilities. Were they?

  She texted a message into her cell phone. “There, now the right people know as well, don’t they? Hmm.”

  I surmised Brits ask a lot of rhetorical questions. My next one wasn’t, however. I wanted answers. “So, Interpol will grab him as he leaves the airport?”

  Glenda shot a look at Andrew and then back at me. “Not quite, I’m afraid. We are going to have to dangle the string a bit longer to see if he pounces, like a good kitty.”

  The knot returned in my chest and yanked my emotions. “And I’m the string.”

  “Well, yes.” Glenda leaned towards me. “But he won’t enjoy what he discovers at the end of it. One pounce, and he’ll get quite a shock.” She shoved her finger into her chest. “This innocent, little mouse has a nasty bite.”

  With a wink, she squiggled her backside deep into the seat and leaned back to watch the traffic zip by.

  Through the rearview mirror, a short laugh jostled our driver’s Adam’s apple. “Brilliant.”

  Glenda gave him playful nudge in the shoulder. “Yes, it was rather jolly, wasn’t it?”

  I wished they’d let me in on the joke. Nothing seemed particularly “jolly” to me at the moment. Especially being unable to decipher the players behind the scenes. But this woman beside me had been notified, and that was what mattered. Or so I kept telling myself.

  You’re only the castled queen, Jen. Stay in your corner of the board. You don’t get to make the big moves. Once again, my life perched in someone else’s hands. When would I ever get used to the fact? The answer hit me hard. Not until Robert laid stone cold and six feet under.

  From deep inside, an ugly thought shot bile into my tonsils. I swallowed it back down with new resolve. Let them use me, then. I’ll be the string and dangle for you, dear Robert. Pounce. Please. I want you gone from my world.

  Fear dissipated into a mist of determined gall, which now coursed through my veins like molten steel. I didn’t need my knight, Tom, after all. He could stay across the pond, safe and sound.

  Imitating my protector, I, too, wiggled the small of my back into the leather seat and turned to watch the outskirts of London dash by. Soon, dappled by the rain droplets on the BMW’s windows, the scenery opened into rolling, verdant hills, lined in a patchwork quilt stitch of hedgerow.

  Welcome to England.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The English tavern was just as I’d pictured, and more. The Tudor styled white building etched with dark brown diagonal beams, the climbing pink roses cascading over the jamb, and the proverbial pub sign squeaking in the damp air on a wrought iron hanger—quintessentially British. The Horse and the Hare. At the bottom in faded paint it read, “Est. 1641.”

  We entered through a beveled glass door into a darkened room with low ceilings and an uneven stone floor. A massive mahogany bar—it had to be eight or ten feet long—flanked one side. Behind it, mirrored shelves and signs advertised Guinness stout and some other brews I didn’t recognize. Glenda gave me her tour guide nod. “This is a free pub. Which means, my dear, they are not sponsored by a brewery, so they can bloody well serve what they want.”

  She winked and motioned me towards a colossal stone fireplace at least a hundred years older than any in my native country. Dark hued, Gainsborough-like scenes of hunts and hounds hung on the walls.

  “Wow, this is authentic, isn’t it?” I shed my raincoat to lay it across the back of my chair when a hand appeared at the end of a crisp, white cotton shirt cuff.

  “May I hang that for ya, miss?”

  I turned to our waiter, stiff as the starched collar that wrapped around his protruding neck. Skinny and tall, he had to hump down to keep from bonking his head on the petrified beam above him. He’d secured his slicked-back ebony hair in a ponytail with a black band. His crooked nose and sharp cheek bones completed the image. Ichabod Crane’s eighth generation successor, no doubt. I pictured the headless horseman lurking outside.

  Upon my nod, he draped my slicker over one arm and pulled out the bench with his other hand. The screech of wood on rock echoed throughout the tavern. Nobody, except me, flinched. He extended his palm for me to hold as I climbed as gracefully as possible into my seat.

  Glenda sat next while Andrew scooched in on the other side. Immediately, menus slapped down in front of us. “You have to try a Pimms, my dear. Trust me.”

  I ordered a Shepherd’s Pie, and a Pimms.

  “What? No bubble and squeak?” Andrew quipped.

  “I must pace my adventures,” I responded with a quick smile. “Besides, I’ve been dying for authentic Shepherd’s Pie to quench the Irish streak in me bones.” My attempt at a Leprechaun accent made them both laugh.

  The drink arrived in a tall glass with strawberries, orange slices, and cucumber slivers swimming in it. A sprig of mint dangled on the rim. The first sip tantalized my taste buds with a lemony tartness followed by a slight aftertaste of gin. My eyes widened as my mouth rounded back over the straw.

  My companion’s chuckle bounced off the rock fireplace. “Well done. I knew you’d fancy it.”

  Half-way through the first glass, my world seemed much rosier. After downing the steaming pie of lamb chunks, onions, and carrots tucked under buttered mashed potatoes, my demeanor became downright pleasant. Andrew sipped a mug of dark brew, room temperature with a thick tan foam, as he chomped on his roast beef sandwich. Glenda enjoyed her Pimms as she delved into a garden salad along with pottage and beget rolls.

  I patted my stomach. “If every pub in England serves meals like this, I’ll be twenty pounds heavier by Christmas.”

  Andrew shook his head. “Most aren’t this grand, but fair. Besides, no worries, luv. You’ll walk it off in no time.” He leaned across the table, “If you stay away from those American grilled cheeses they serve at the Museum. Come with…what do you call them?” He snapped his finger. “Yes, fries.” His eyes switched to Glenda. “Fried like our chips, but skinny and long.”

  She gave him a ters
e look. “I know what fries are, Andrew.”

  He snorted into his glass as he downed some more lager and returned to his sandwich.

  I eyed them both. “Walk it off?”

  Glenda titled her head. “You won’t have a car. But, never fret. We’ve found you a nice flat a half-mile down the road.”

  “Of course, the museum is quite a brisk stroll from the street, now isn’t it?” Andrew drained the rest of his glass. “About a mile, I’d be guessing. More?”

  “Well,” Glenda began as she neatly folded her red cloth napkin on the table. “We have at least another hour’s travel, maybe less depending on the queues.”

  “Queues?”

  She did the hand pat thing again. “Lines. Traffic can get bloody staunched this time of day.” Her Americanized covering had slipped off her native accent. What appeared to be a deepening pride twinkled in her eyes.

  “I have so much to learn with all these many terminologies.”

  She humphed with a smirk. “Well, they say our two countries are more separated by a common language than the pond.” She scooted back her chair.

  Andrew wiped his mouth. “Need to use the loo before we venture on?”

  Glenda nodded. “Grand idea. You coming, Niamh?” Her eyes darted to the front of the pub, opposite the long mahogany bar.

  Her expression took on a seriousness, so I followed her lead as Andrew settled the bill with a government supplied credit card, no doubt. “Why do you call it the loo?”

  Glenda shook her thick locks. “I haven’t the foggiest. We’ll have to Google it, what?”

  She pushed open the wooden door and we entered a small room with two stalls and a row of bright blue tile imbedded into the stucco walls halfway up in a diamond pattern. The floor held the same style, cracked in places. A slight whiff of bleach hit my nose.

  She checked both stalls to make sure we were alone. “We need to dally for a bit in here.”

  The last two bites of Shepherd’s pie returned to my throat. “Why?”

  Glenda edged her ruby lipstick around her mouth as she peered at me through the lavatory mirror. “Those men who sat off to our left by the hanging ivy?”

  I crinkled my nose. “I didn’t see…”

  “Well, Andrew did. Reported to be for-hires, you know.” She clicked her lipstick case closed. “What do you Americans call them? Vigilantes? Will do nasty odd jobs for the right price?”

  I grabbed for the tiles on the wall behind me. “You think Robert hired them?”

  “Well.” Her eyes flashed. “We can’t be sure, but it’s likely, isn’t it?” With that she slipped into the first stall.

  I slid into the other and sat down, fully clothed, my eyes squinted in prayer. One hand grabbed the small gold cross dangling from the filigree chain. How long would I have to watch over my shoulder? Then, a realization grasped the hairs on the back of my neck. I hadn’t sensed danger. I’d been too warmed by the Pimms and a belly stuffed with comfort food. Thank goodness Andrew had been observant.

  “God, give me wisdom,” I whispered. “I am traipsing in the valley of death and I’m not fearing any evil. That’s not good, even if Thou art with me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A knock sounded on the restroom, that is loo, door. Andrew whispered, “All clear, ladies.”

  I peered out from my prayer place. Glenda emerged from her stall, smoothed her clothes and gave her head an affirmative shake. “Forward, then.”

  Andrew waited in the foyer, rocking on his heels. “Mom can put us up for the evening. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

  My brows knitted. “I thought Bath on Avon was close?”

  Andrew’s eyebrow arched. “Yes, but some rather undesirable men are closer.”

  Glenda looped her elbow through mine. “No sense entering your new town with unnecessary fanfare, is there?”

  I stopped. “Sure it’s safe?”

  Our male protector gave me a wry smile. “We’ve dodged them for the moment.”

  I exited through the side door Andrew held open. A small flagstone garden tucked next to the pub offered a nice repose since the rain had eased. Two tourists sat feeding pigeons. A tan and white cat lay on the sidewalk across the street in front of a quintessential thatch-roofed cottage. A group of teenagers laughed, shopping bags laced on their arms. Two of them strolled backwards to keep up with the conversation. The world spun on its axle just fine.

  I noticed the navy blue BMW had vanished. “We’ll catch another ride,” Glenda replied to my unexpressed question. “It’s being arranged now.”

  “How do you know all this?” I had never heard either of them speak to anyone else.

  Glenda pulled back a strand of hair to reveal a small flesh-colored device crammed into her ear canal. “We stay in touch.”

  Andrew grinned and turned his head to give me a peek at his device before he plastered some wheat-colored strands back over his lobe. “We’re to go this way.”

  Two blocks later, a white Volvo sat parked on the other side of the street. “That’s it.” He dashed across and retrieved the keyless entry button from the tire well.

  Glenda and I slid in the back seat.

  “Lacock is a few miles down A350. Where me mum lives. We’ll be there in ten at the most.”

  “What about my luggage?”

  Andrew grinned through the rearview mirror. “It’ll follow us. No worries.”

  He led us down the highway and turned onto another road through rows of fields. In minutes, it became a classic English street flanked on both sides by a hodgepodge of shops butted next to each other. Some sported the Tudor style, others were faced with light brick or stone. Splashes of potted flowers decorated the stoops and hung from the lamp posts. He parked in front of the used clothing shop, encased in a trailing rose-covered door. A red painted bay window showed off the latest hand-me-downs.

  The bell attached to the jamb tinkled as we entered. The shop consisted of two rooms. In the first one perched a counter and displays of accessories, while the other had racks of clothes, mostly women’s and little girl’s. The wood plank floor groaned under each step, as I’m sure, it had for centuries.

  “Andrew!” A short, dowdy woman with graying temples shuffled towards us with arms open and eyes tearing. “Welcome home!”

  Andrew’s ears crimsoned, but he accepted his mother’s love and lifted her slightly off the floor in a hug. With a giggle, she slapped his shoulder when he set her down. “Enough with you.” She eyed him coyly, and then turned to us. Palm extended, she introduced herself. “Miz Murdoch’s the name.”

  “I’m Mrs. Hensley, and this is Mrs. Manning.” Glenda did the formal how-ya-do’s as I smiled and took the woman’s hand. She grabbed it and pumped it up and down rapidly several times.

  “So pleased. So pleased.” She waved her arms around the room. “Please, browse, my dears. Then we’ll have a cuppa.”

  Two women flipped through a rack, eying sizes obviously way too small for either of them. Both gave us a dash of a smile as we made our way through the second room. Glenda leaned into my ear. “May as well shop. You can’t have enough good ol’ English clothes now, can you? Hmm.”

  I found two tweed skirts, three cardigans, an all-weather coat, and a nice cream-colored blouse. I stepped out of the miniscule dressing room sequestered by a flowered shower curtain which must have been from the 70s, also for sale. Andrew’s eyebrow raised. “Very nice, Niamh.”

  Glenda donned a two-piece, rose-colored outfit and admired her not-too matronly figure in a dusty, oval floor mirror. When I appeared in her view, she clasped her hands. “Oh, my dear. Yes, lovely on you.” She scurried to the counter. “And this will be just the thing to top it off.”

  Black beads with matching dangling earrings lay on tissue paper. “It’s onyx, from the mines near Devon in the north,” Andrew’s mother replied, arms folded over her ample bosom. “T’will bring out the shine in those amazing blue-gray eyes of yours.”

  What?
Oh, yeah. My eyes were blue-gray now, thanks to the contact lenses. I smiled a thank you laced with faked modesty, which I hoped covered up any surprise on my face.

  A basket of small enameled pins resembling the birds of England lay nearby. The sign told us the proceeds went to the RSBP. To change the attention from me, I pointed to it.

  “That’s Royal Society for the Protection of Birds,” Mrs. Murdoch explained. “Suggested donation is a pound.”

  I chose a magpie. She pinned it on my lapel, brushed it slightly and stood back. A smile curled from her thin lips, and her eyes twinkled a bit brighter. “Very nice.”

  I grinned as I touched the bird. A magpie. I’d read about them in the Classics, but had never spotted one. The excitement of actually being in the British Isles invaded my mood again, despite the lurking danger.

  Mrs. Murdoch turned her gaze to her son, who made a Picasso of smudges on the glass case with his finger. “Andrew, take them ’round to the bakery for some nice scones and biscuits while I put the kettle on upstairs. Say hi to Mary. She misses you.”

  As if rehearsed a hundred times, her associate slid over to the cash register as Andrew’s mother undid her shop apron and hung it on a peg.

  “Okay, Mum. “ Andrew opened the door, the bell tinkled, and we stepped out into the street. A cool breeze fluttered by, dampened by the recent rain. A welcomed relief after the stuffy shop. I noticed a hint of a silver lining moving behind the humps of dove-colored clouds. A celestial sign of goodwill? I hoped so.

  We strolled in silence down two blocks of wall to wall architectural history. It was like stepping back in time. Then Andrew motioned us across the street to The Buttery Biscuit.

  I could quickly get used to English bakeries. Rows of glass-encased goodies tantalized my taste buds. Chocolates, scones, fluffy muffins spilling over their tins, and freshly baked breads protruding from oblong straw-woven baskets donned the cramped little shop. In the corner by the back windows a cluster of tables and chairs perched at an angle. A soft-serve ice cream machine churned with a soft hum, and a refrigerated glass case held all sorts of sodas and waters. Coca Cola I expected, but I laughed when my eye caught a can of Dr. Pepper.