“Maggie’s asleep. If you two think you’ll be okay, Espinosa and I will be getting back to the paper. Call us if you need anything.”
Annie drew herself up to her imposing regal height and fixed her gaze on her two loyal employees. “I trust this . . . this visit is between us, gentlemen.”
“What visit?” Ted grinned as he opened the door for Espinosa. “If you need us, call. Smells good in here.”
Myra’s eyes turned crafty. “Do you think so?”
“Oh, yeah,” Espinosa said.
“Well, then, consider it yours,” Myra said, pulling out the electrical cord and handing the Crock-Pot over to Ted, who didn’t know what to do, so he just accepted it.
Everyone waved good-bye.
“I think you just did a very dangerous thing, my dear. Charles is going to be upset, isn’t he, Myra?”
“Ask someone who cares about Crock-Pots. I-do-not-care!”
“Feisty, aren’t we?” Annie tittered as she made her way to the family room, where she sank down, closed her eyes, and was asleep instantly.
Myra smiled as she looked at the empty spot on the kitchen counter where the Crock-Pot had been sitting. Gremlins.
Charles Martin stepped into the kitchen and looked around. The first thing he noticed was his missing Crock-Pot, the empty cups on the table, and the absence of his beloved. The second thing he noticed was two strange jackets hanging on the wooden pegs near the back door. Guests!
He called out, and the dogs came running, which was no surprise. But they didn’t approach him—the four dogs just stood in the doorway, their tails wagging furiously. “Aha! You want me to follow you, is that it?” He did, his hand flying to his mouth so he wouldn’t laugh out loud. “Shhh,” he said to the dogs as he backed out of the room. In the kitchen, he opened the door for the dogs. They looked up at him as much as if to say, Can we trust you to look after the ladies? “It’s okay, I have the picture. Go!” They did and were back within minutes as they lined up waiting for their treats, which they all carried back to the family room.
As smart and as astute as he was, Charles knew something had gone down while he was in the catacombs, and it wasn’t his disappearing Crock-Pot, although he rightly assumed it had something to do with the ladies’ afternoon nap.
Annie was back after only three days. He again rightly assumed she’d been either kicked out of Vegas as she put it or she returned because . . . because . . . Maggie Spitzer was here. He craned his neck to look out the kitchen window to see if Annie’s spiffy one-of-a-kind sports car was in the courtyard parking lot. It wasn’t. That had to mean someone brought them home from wherever they’d been. It could have been anyone, but if he were a betting man, which he wasn’t, he would bet on either Ted Robinson or Joe Espinosa. Or both of those worthy gentlemen.
Something had happened, and he’d missed it. Whatever it was. He felt a momentary pang of jealousy that he’d been excluded and all because he was hell-bent on writing his memoirs, an opus that no one would ever read. Even Myra, who said she didn’t care to revisit the past in any way, shape, or form.
Dinner. He’d fallen way short on that, too, using the silly Crock-Pot to give himself more time to write his equally silly memoirs. Obviously, he needed to make some changes, and he needed to make them quickly, or he was going to be standing outside the door looking in. Myra could be unforgiving. Annie more so. Maggie . . . Maggie would send him to the dogs and not even blink. Women!
Charles munched on cheese and crackers as he watched the digital clock on the gas range. His thoughts were all over the map as he waited for the time to pass. Somewhere deep inside he knew something was wrong, and the women hadn’t seen fit to include him in whatever it was. And that confirmed his thought that he needed to clean up his act. He looked over at the empty space on the kitchen counter. His first clue. Myra meant business.
The minutes, then the hours, ticked by so slowly, Charles wanted to scream. He tried browsing through cookbooks to pass the time, turning the television set on the counter off, then on, then off again because there was nothing even remotely interesting. He debated about baking a cake, then negated the idea even though he’d heard or read that after a drinking bender, the drinker always wanted something sweet.
The bottom line was he was feeling sorry for himself, and he didn’t like the feeling. Maybe he needed some fresh air. A walk around the garden might be just what the doctor ordered. He could gaze at the harvest moon and bay at it if he wanted to. He wanted to.
The dogs must have intuitively sensed what he was planning because, even before he could get up, they were at the door, waiting expectantly.
Charles reached for a cigar and some dog chews and let himself and the dogs out the door. The dogs immediately ran off, leaving Charles to meander through the leaf-strewn garden. He sat down on a bench by a small pond Myra had put in two years earlier and listened to the soft sounds of the pump at the far end. Such a peaceful spot. But he wasn’t feeling peaceful at the moment. He was feeling angry. Not at the ladies but at himself.
The wind whipped up suddenly, and within minutes, the pond was covered with leaves. The gas lamp at the far end cast a hazy yellow glow over his surroundings. It looked eerie to his eyes. He looked up at the beautiful harvest moon and wondered if he should make some kind of wish. What would he wish for? Happiness for all his loved ones. What could be better than that? He made his wish and didn’t feel silly at all.
“Wake up and smell the roses, Sir Charles,” he muttered to himself as he fired up his cigar. His thoughts took him everywhere and yet nowhere as he puffed on the cigar, blowing perfect smoke rings that rose high in the air and skittered across the yard on the wind.
The dogs, not understanding this strange behavior, raced around the yard, yipping at each other as they tried to catch the swirling leaves. From time to time, they would stop and look upward at the night, which was suddenly like daylight to them. Finally, exhausted, they settled down by Charles’s feet. He handed them all a chew. He smiled in the moonlight. The dogs were his and Myra’s children and treated as such.
Charles didn’t know how long he sat there on the bench. Long enough that the wind sent the leaves on the pond somewhere else as the moon inched its way across the sky. His body was telling him it was way past his bedtime. Not that he had a real bedtime; he didn’t. He slept when his body told him to sleep. An hour here, two hours there. Rarely, if ever, did he sleep a full night in his bed. A doctor had once told him his brain wasn’t programmed to sleep the way other people slept. He’d accepted it because he couldn’t come up with a better answer. Now, however, his body was telling him it was time to head into the house and prepare for some rest.
Charles grunted when he got up, his knees and joints creaking. Even the dogs heard the bone-cracking noises. They were on their feet instantly, racing to the kitchen door. He was stunned to see Myra sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea, the tea bag hanging over the side of the cup. He winced at the sight.
“Did you have a nice walk in the garden, dear?”
“I did. Would you like me to make you some real tea?”
“No. This is fine. I gave your Crock-Pot to Ted this afternoon.”
“I see” was all Charles could think of to say.
“I hated it, Charles. I’d rather eat a baloney sandwich than that stuff you threw in the pot. I didn’t even know we owned a Crock-Pot.”
“I ordered it online. Truth be told, I didn’t much care for it myself, but it was convenient. Would you like to talk about it, Myra?”
Myra knew he wasn’t referring to the Crock-Pot. “Yes, and no. Annie’s back, as you can see. She came over to take me to lunch because she’d won seventy-three dollars on her way out of the casino. If lunch was over seventy-three dollars, I had to make up the difference. Just as we were leaving to go, Maggie showed up. Her husband, Gus Sullivan, was killed in Afghanistan by a roadside bomb. Ten months ago! She didn’t tell anyone but Ted. Gus went back as some kind of secu
rity consultant, against Maggie’s wishes. She said their marriage was over even before he left, and she has been carrying around a ton of guilt on her shoulders. Ted helped her through the worst of it. Anyway, she’s back to stay and will be working at the Post.
“In addition to that, Annie told me Fergus left to return to his family in Scotland. It seems he won the Irish Sweepstakes and didn’t tell anyone but Annie. Somehow, the family he was estranged from found out about his winnings and welcomed him back. Annie says she isn’t devastated, but she is. That’s why we went to the bistro and drank more than was good for us. I swear I will never do that again. Ted and Joseph brought us home. I guess you could technically say they put us to bed in the family room. That’s the end of my story. I’m not sorry about the Crock-Pot, Charles. You need to know that.”
Charles nodded. “Will Maggie be all right?”
“I think so. She might have a few things she has to work through, but she’s back with all of us now. One step, one day at a time. Maggie’s tough. What she didn’t realize was that she is also vulnerable, like the rest of us. She knows that now. Oh, she did say something else when we got back. She said she wants to talk to us in the morning about a possible mission for the Vigilantes.”
Charles felt his heart skip a beat. “Really?”
“That’s pretty much what I said, too. ‘Really?’ Oh, Charles, I hope it’s something we can sink our teeth into. We have been so inactive, and I can’t bear those gold shields getting tarnished and going to waste. We need to use them. You know what, darling? I will take some of that real tea now. And maybe something nourishing. Like food. I’ll settle for peanut butter and jelly if you make it.”
“Consider it done, my dear. Would you like some marshmallow fluff on top of the jelly?”
Myra giggled. “Of course, dear. Sweets to the sweet. Oh, I can’t wait for Maggie to wake up to tell us what’s on her mind. Have you seen anything on the news lately that would . . . fit into our lifestyle these days, Charles?”
Busy at the counter, Charles stopped to think, then shook his head. “Not that I recall. Everything is political nowadays, or the news is about some movie star’s doing something he or she shouldn’t be doing. I have no clue.”
Myra nibbled on her thumbnail, her gaze on a hanging plant in the window, her thoughts taking her back in time to other missions with the girls. She could feel her heart rate accelerate as she contemplated getting back into action with her peers.
Charles set Myra’s plate in front of her, then one for himself. He poured fresh real tea and sat down across from his wife. “I have to admit, I’m looking forward to hearing what Maggie has to say.” He bit into his sandwich, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“I knew it! You are just as anxious as Annie and I to get back to work. I swear, Charles, I was beginning to think we were starting to atrophy, and that Crock-Pot just confirmed it. Aren’t you glad we’re starting with a clean slate now?”
“My dear, you have no idea!”
“Oh, yes, my darling, I do. And so does Annie. And I truly believe Maggie will be up for whatever comes our way. As soon as I finish this lovely sandwich and drink this delicious tea, I am going to text Nellie, Martine, and Pearl to put them on alert. I know they’re chomping at the bit just the way Annie and I have been. Unless . . .” Myra let her eyes do the talking. Charles laughed.
“Just so you know, Charles, today at the bistro I was not only drinking, I was listening, and you would be surprised at what I learned. I’m willing to share if you think you can beat me to the second floor.”
Before Charles could react, Myra was up and sprinting up the back staircase to the second floor, with Charles hot on her heels.
“Oh, dear, you caught me,” Myra said, gasping for breath.
“That I did, old girl, that I did, and I am never going to let you go.”
Chapter 3
Retired federal judge Cornelia Easter, Nellie to those near and dear, shivered in her easy recliner when a strong gust of wind whipped against the casement windows. The noise was so loud, the cats cuddling on her lap hissed and raced off to more quiet surroundings. She looked over at her husband, retired FBI Director Elias Cummings, and smiled. She wasn’t sure if a magnitude seven earthquake could wake Elias when he dozed off after a more-than-satisfying dinner.
The lone cat nestled on her shoulder only stirred when he alerted Nellie that she had an incoming text message. She hated text messages that required a response because the keys were too little, and her gnarled fingers had trouble hitting the right keys. As she read the message, she risked a glance at her husband—still sound asleep. She sucked in her breath, trying to decide if she was excited at what she was reading or dreading the outcome. She did, however, like the part that Maggie was back in town. She fumbled in the pocket of the recliner for a pen and managed to tap off a response that was short and to the point: I will be there. “There” being Myra’s for dinner the following day, followed by a meeting in the catacombs for a possible mission. She stared off into space, finally focusing on the fire burning in the fireplace, and came to the conclusion that she was excited at the message she’d received.
She’d been bored for weeks now—maybe it was months, she’d simply lost track of time—ever since the painters had arrived. Either they were exceptionally slow, or she had no patience for perfection, which the painters said was needed when painting such a lovely old historical farmhouse. She couldn’t help but wonder how excited her husband would be when she woke him up to go to bed, which was laughable in itself.
She really should get up and put some more logs on the fire. She loved the warmth from the fire. Another sign of old age, along with her arthritis, she thought sourly. The need to feel warm all the time was right up there with wearing three-quarter sleeves even in the high heat of summer, so the ugly brown spots that could no longer pass as freckles couldn’t be seen. Old age sucked, as Annie pointed out on a daily basis.
Nellie frowned. Was she losing her mind? Didn’t Annie just leave for Vegas a few days ago? She was sure of it. But she was suddenly back home, along with Maggie Spitzer. Aha! For sure, something was in the wind. Her frown deepened. Unless . . . Annie got kicked out of Vegas. Again. More than likely that’s what had happened, knowing Annie’s track record. Still, the fact that Annie was back so quickly meant something serious was going on. Doubly so since Maggie had also returned.
Nellie struggled to get her new hips, which weren’t so new anymore, to work as she got out of her chair to throw more logs on the fire. She watched as the sparks shot up the chimney like a Fourth of July fireworks display.
Outside, the wind continued to whistle and shriek like loons on a lake. She paid it no mind as she tried to imagine what would go down tomorrow at Pinewood after dinner. The frown was knitting its way over her brow again when her thoughts took her to Pearl Barnes, who was suffering through a painful bout of gout. Would Pearl make it to Pinewood? Knowing Pearl, she’d be there if she had to crawl. That left the ex-president, who was in Bahrain or some damn place like that, giving a speech for half a million dollars. How in the world would she get back home in time for a meeting at Pinewood? It would take her days just to figure out a way to shake her Secret Service protection.
Nellie looked over at Elias, who was snoring loudly, another reason the cats had run for cover. She let her hand dip down into the pocket of her lounger and withdrew the soft velvet pouch she always kept near. She withdrew the shiny gold shield. A delicious wave of something she couldn’t define raced through her body, then the word danger flooded her whole being. Holding the flawless chunk of gold in the palm of her hand had to be the ultimate adrenaline rush. She savored the moment before slipping the shield back into the velvet pouch.
A log dropped with a loud cracking sound. Elias stirred but didn’t wake. Nellie closed her eyes and let her memories take her where they wanted to go.
Less than forty miles away, in Alphabet City, the retired justice of the Supreme Court, Pearl Barnes, h
obbled around her kitchen in search of food that wouldn’t aggravate her condition. She was cranky to be sure because she absolutely refused to take medicine for her condition. She hated pills of all kinds, and it had been over fifty years since she’d even popped an aspirin. She’d researched her condition years ago and knew what she had to do each time a bout flared up. If her calculations were right, she’d be almost as good as new if she could make it through the next day and a half. She’d cut down on her healing time during her last three flare-ups thanks to a bean-and-legume diet, along with gallons of water. In her research and chats online and blogs and tweets and everything in between, there had been one woman much her own age who swore by the bean, legume, and water diet for gout by saying she was good to go in three days after a flare-up. And don’t worry, the postscript read, if you have gas for a few days. It’s all about ridding yourself of the toxins.
Pearl Barnes hated doctors. Until she needed one. She also hated lawyers even though she was one herself. Until she needed one. The truth was there was nothing much in life that Pearl actually liked other than her part in operating an underground railroad for abused women. She’d more or less retired from that venture when, thanks to ample warning, she got the hell out of Dodge in the nick of time. If she had a love of any kind, seeing the women off to safety was it. She still gave her input, but she was smart enough to know she was under surveillance, so she was extracareful not to do anything that would jeopardize the other faithful volunteers. She missed it, missed the urgency, the danger, the smiles of the grateful women and kids she put her life on the line to help.
Blindsided Page 3
