Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series)

by Kimberli A. Bindschatel

  “Are you sure? Because I can—”

  “No, really. How long will you be gone?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Perfect.” He smiled, satisfied. “We’ll plan to get together then. You’ll take a few days off, right? Promise me.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Not some quick layover lunch. Mexico. For a real, honest-to-goodness va-cay. You need to take a deep breath and I need a long-deserved break. Beach, cocktails, sunshine. You got me?”

  I nodded. “I can’t wait.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek, then started back toward my seat, but turned around. I had to know. “One little hint?”

  “It’s all right. Honestly. It can wait.” A grin creeped across his face. “But I almost forgot. I got you something.” He pulled a bag from a galley cabinet and handed it to me.

  Inside was a jacket. Pink camouflage. “You didn’t!” I grinned.

  “I did.” He snickered. “I couldn’t resist.”

  “This is god-awful tacky.”

  He tried to contain a full-out giggle. “It’s perfect.”

  A smirk came to my lips. “You’re bad.”

  “I know.”

  I put it on. Snuggly fleece.

  “I got you something else,” he said. From his pocket, he handed me a tiny box.

  “What is this?”

  “Open it,” he said. “And hurry up. I’ve actually got to work on this flight.”

  “I mean, what’s it for? It’s not my birthday or anything.”

  “I just”—he shrugged—“wanted you to have it.”

  Inside the box was a silver chain with a pendant—a tiny compass.

  “To help you find your way,” he said, his eyes all moist, which got my eyes all moist. Oh Chris. “I mean, I know it doesn’t actually work—”

  “I love it.”

  “It’s just that you’ve been, well…”

  Suddenly my throat stuck shut. “Oh god, Chris, what am I going to do if I get fired?”

  “What?” He jerked backward. “What are you talking about?” His eyes softened. “Oh my god, you’re serious. What’s happened?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t talk about it right now.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. Dalton’s probably just gotten a little hot under the collar. I’m sure if you talk to him—”

  “Not Dalton.” I puckered. “Stan Martin. Head of Special Ops.”

  “Head of—what the hell? Poppy! What did you do?”

  “Nothing!”

  He gave me that look.

  “Dalton got called for an investigative hearing on our op in Norway. They’re investigating me.”

  His hand went to cover his mouth. “Oh shit, girl. That ain’t good.”

  “Dalton says not to worry, it’s all politics, but—” I clamped my lips together. “If I make one mistake, one bad move, one slip on this op with Joe, it’s all over.”

  “Okay, now I’m confused. I thought you said the head of Special Ops. Joe’s your boss. But isn’t he Joe’s boss?”

  “Well, yeah, but that’s not the point. I mean, it’s Joe’s op, so—I just need to—”

  “You need to take a deep breath.” He pulled me to him, wrapped his arms around me. “It’ll be okay. Trust Dalton. I’m sure he’s right. If this Martin guy is the head of the department, he’s getting his ass chewed about something and he’s got to pass it down the line. It’ll probably blow over.”

  “I don’t know. He’s summoned Dalton for an interview and I don’t know if he’ll—”

  Chris pulled away to look me in the eye. “Dalton’s a lot of things, but he’s no snitch. He’ll stand up for you.”

  I nodded. “I know. You’re right. You’re always right. But it’s just that…”

  “Just what?”

  “He knows about my dad. He’s questioning whether I can do my job because of it.”

  Chris took hold of me by the shoulders. “You’re the strongest woman I know. And the smartest. What happened to your dad has no bearing on that.”

  I managed a smile.

  He took the necklace from the box, held it around my neck, and hooked the clasp.

  I fingered the tiny compass, trying to find words. I looked into his eyes and was sure that he knew that I would lose it if I stood there any longer. “I should get back to my seat.”

  He nodded. “I need to get to the back and set up the cart service.”

  He shoved the empty shopping bag into the cabinet. As he turned, I thrust my arms around him again. “I love you.”

  “Me too,” he said as he nudged my chin with his, just like my dad used to do. It made me smile and relax a little. “Everything’s going to be okay. So don’t go getting all sappy on me now. You’re a big, bad hunter. Let’s go.”

  I grinned and headed back to my seat, Chris right behind me. The old lady saw me coming and looked away. As I turned to slide into the seat, I noticed the man behind my seat’s eyes fixed on Chris. I lingered, standing in front of my seat, as Chris passed me.

  The man put out his arm to block his way. “I want another Jack and Coke.”

  Chris smiled his hospitality smile and said, “I’ll let the purser know, sir,” then tried to continue down the aisle, but the man grabbed him by the arm.

  “You can get it for me. You’re a stewardess, ain’t ya?”

  My pulse rate shot into the stratosphere.

  Chris calmly responded over his shoulder. “The purser takes care of first-class. She’d be happy to get your drink. I’ll let her know right away.”

  The man yanked Chris’s arm, pulling him backward.“You’ll do it now, fag.”

  I brain caught on fire. “Hey, hands off, mister!”

  The man scowled and started to rise from the seat but got caught by the seatbelt. His face flushed red. He flicked the buckle open. “How dare you, girl,” he growled, rising from his seat with surprising strength. He still had a grip on Chris’s arm, tugging him.

  I pushed into the aisle, chopped at the asshole’s wrist with my forearm, breaking his grip on Chris. I latched on and twisted his arm back into an arm bar. “I said hands off.” His face turned beet red.

  Chris had his hands in the air. “It’s all right. No harm done. Let him go.”

  I twisted harder. The man clenched his teeth and glared at me.

  “Now say you’re sorry,” I hissed.

  He lifted his free hand as though to slap me across the face, but the two hunters were on their feet behind me.

  “The lady’s right,” the one brother said. “You were out of line there, Mister.”

  The man hesitated before easing back into his seat, his eyes on the brothers.

  The brother nodded toward my hands where I still had the man’s arm pinned back. “I think you’ve made your point.”

  I released my grip.

  The purser appeared behind me, all perky smiles. “Everything all right here?”

  The other brother piped up. “This man was choking on a pretzel, but he’s fine now.”

  With a suspicious nod, the purser slowly turned before heading back to the front of the plane.

  “Thank you,” I whispered to the brother, filled with shame for how I’d judged him before.

  Dalton came up behind Chris. “What the hell’s going on, Sis?”

  Shit.

  “I’ll get your drink right away, sir,” Chris said. He turned to me, glaring. “Would you kindly get back in your seat?”

  I glanced around the cabin. Everyone was silent, staring.

  Dalton pushed past Chris and hustled me toward the front of the plane to the galley. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I…I just—”

  He shook his head. “You just what? Dammit, Poppy.”

  I held up my hands. “I know. I know.”

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Nothing. I wasn’t. I just, he was harassing Chris.” I leaned closer and said through clenched teeth, “He called him a fag.” />
  He spun around, hands on his hips. “Is that all? Do you not understand what it means to be undercover?”

  “Yes, and I don’t need a lecture.”

  “Apparently you do.”

  Chris poked his head around the corner. “What the hell, Poppy? Are you trying to get me fired?”

  “What? No. Why would—”

  “I got you in first-class. Under my company ID! You know the rules, the code of conduct.”

  Shit.

  Chris flung open a drawer, mixed the Jack and Coke, then stomped off.

  Dalton looked me up and down, shaking his head. “You’d better get your shit together.”

  Four and a half hours later, my nose dry and tongue like sandpaper, the plane banked right and started to descend. Chris hadn’t said another word to me the entire flight. I owed him an apology, big time. Dalton was right. I did need to get my shit together, like he said, as clichéd as that might be. It was one thing to have my own job on the line for my impulsive behavior, but I’d put Chris’s at risk too—oh, what was I thinking?

  And Dalton. He’d just warned me about this very thing. I’d probably ruined any chance of us being able to work together again. That is, if I still had a job after this op. Maybe it wouldn’t matter anyway.

  I was tempted to start belting down some Jack and Cokes myself.

  The plane banked again and we leveled off for the approach to the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport, the third-busiest cargo traffic airport in the world. Snow-capped mountains spread out forever in several directions. Cook Inlet provided a dazzling reflection of the Anchorage skyline, a metropolis the size of Delaware with a population exceeding 400,000, right smack in the middle of pristine, unending wilderness.

  One of the many advantages of flying first-class is not having to wait for everyone else to deplane. Once on the ground and the door opened, I grabbed my duffle and bolted.

  At the end of the jetbridge, I spotted a Cinnabon and figured standing in line there was the perfect place to watch for the man and his wife, see if he made a complaint to the airline agent greeting passengers as they filed past. Besides, I was in the mood for some sugar therapy.

  I watched the couple as they stopped to catch their breath after huffing up the jetway then passed by the agent and headed toward the bathroom. Maybe I’d get lucky and that was the end of it.

  Dalton sauntered up to me looking like he’d just woke from a refreshing nap. SEALs.

  “Well, look at you. As fresh as a daisy,” I said.

  “Am I?” he said, looking down at his shirt. “And I wasn’t the one in first class.”

  “Yeah, well.” I frowned.

  His eyes fixed on the Cinnabon case. “Seriously?”

  “I thought it was a good place to keep a lookout.” I made a subtle nod toward the jetway. “See if he files a complaint.”

  “Yeah? And what will you do if he does?”

  I shrugged. I had no answer.

  “You don’t have to make an excuse if you want a cinnamon bun.”

  “Look what I’m wearing.” I tugged at the pink camouflage.

  He grinned. “It suits you.”

  “Funny.” I smirked. “Anyone who’d seriously wear this would beeline for a Cinnabon.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Really. It fits my cover.”

  “Yep.” His lip curved up at the edge. His half-grin, I called it. Irresistible.

  “You’re so aggravating.”

  “If you say so.”

  I gritted my teeth. He was. Aggravating, that is. At least he was talking to me now.

  Once I had downed half that bun of oozy, gooey sweetness, my stomach did a barrel roll in objection. I puffed out my cheeks, feeling stuffed.

  Dalton shook his head. “Shall we get our baggage now?”

  “You still here?”

  I spun around. It was Chris. His eyes dropped to the remains of the Cinnabun in my hand.

  “I’m sorry, Chris. I don’t know what I was thinking.” I held out the bun to him. An offering.

  “Do you think a Cinnabun is going to fix it?” He glared at me, hands on his hips.

  “No.” I hung my head. “Do you think he’ll—”

  “I doubt it,” he said as he snatched the bun from my hand and tore off a bite. “I kept serving him Double Jack and Cokes. I don’t think he’s in the mood to make a complaint. Besides, I don’t think his wife was very happy with him either.”

  I nodded and stood there in the uncomfortable silence.

  Chris held out his hand to Dalton. “I’m Chris, by the way. We haven’t been formally introduced.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said with a quick look around to make sure no one was within earshot. “This is my partner, Special Agent—” I paused for emphasis “—G. Dalton. Yep, you heard me. I don’t actually know his first name.”

  Dalton gave me the tiniest smirk. “Just Dalton,” he said to Chris.

  Somehow, without my noticing during the introductions, the three of us had started walking. Chris chattered on about air travel or something. My head was lost in a sugar haze.

  Near baggage claim, Chris stopped in front of a giant glass-encased grizzly bear. The animals stood on its hind legs, its mouth forced into a permanent roar. “Holy shit! Are they really that big? That thing’s ferocious.”

  “It’s a world record take,” Dalton said. “Bigger than most.”

  “Yeah, but still.” Chris shuddered. “You’re going to be out there in the wilderness with those? What if one decides you’d be a tasty lunch?”

  Dalton eyed Chris, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll be with her the whole time.”

  What was it with these two? “I can take care of myself.”

  Dalton went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “The thing about bears is, if they do charge, it’s often a bluff. Eight times out of ten. The key is to never run.”

  “A bear comes after me, my skinny ass is outta there.”

  “Not if you want to survive,” Dalton told him. “If you run, you’ll incite the bear to chase. They can sprint thirty-five miles per hour.” He grinned. “I don’t think you can hit forty.”

  I added. “Dalton’s right. But generally you don’t have to worry. They’re the ultimate predator, yes, but their diet mostly consists of roots and grasses, berries and nuts, and salmon in the fall.”

  “Define mostly,” Chris said, deadpan.

  “I’m just saying. They’re not the ferocious killers people make them out to be. They’re really fascinating, actually. Did you know that a bear’s sense of smell is seven times more powerful than a bloodhound’s?”

  Dalton tapped on the glass case, pointing to a plaque inside. “Look here.” It read: World record Kodiak Brown bear (ursus arctos middendorffi) Skull score - 30 10/16 inches, harvested on April 20, 1997.

  “Harvested?” Chris said, eyebrows raised.

  I rolled my eyes. “Like a field of wheat.” I leaned toward Chris. “The poor bear was probably snoozing when he shot it. Then it gets mounted in that heinous pose.”

  Dalton gave me a look.

  I frowned. I know.

  I stared up at the bear, into his glass eyes, and imagined meeting his real gaze in the wild. This beautiful creature once lived, breathed, walked the woods in all his majesty. Digging for clams with those six inch claws. And those teeth. Ripping a spawning salmon apart for the roe.

  “I don’t understand it,” Chris said.

  “Don’t understand what?” Dalton asked.

  “Bear hunting. I mean, I get wanting to feed your family, all that. But to go after a bear like that? Look at the size of that monster. His teeth. Those claws.”

  “It’s a testosterone thing,” Dalton said.

  Chris turned to me, eyebrows raised in his playful way. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

  “No, nope, uh uh,” Dalton stuttered. “Not at all.”

  “He means it makes them feel manly,” I said. “Killing something. Somethi
ng powerful.”

  “Yeah? Then why would a twenty-four year old girl want to hunt one?”

  “Yeah, Poppy,” Dalton said, glancing around. “You got that one figured out yet?”

  I did. Those hours on the plane had given me time to think, to sort some things out. I winked. “It’s an adrenaline rush, the thrill of the hunt.”

  “Now that sounds like you,” Chris said and turned to go. “Remember, you owe me. A real vacation in Mexico.”

  I nodded. Did that mean he’d forgiven me? “I promise. The moment I get back.”

  His smile turned serious. “Be careful out there. With a beast that powerful,” he said, gesturing toward the bear, “you can’t be sure who’s the hunter and who’s the hunted.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dalton and I got our luggage and walked from the airport terminal, across the road, to the Lake Hood Seaplane Base, where we were to meet our pilot for our floatplane trip to the lodge. Snow-covered mountains and a crisp, blue sky filled with white, puffy clouds made a backdrop for the series of water channels that served as tarmac and runways for this, the busiest seaplane airport in the world. Orange, red, and yellow planes—hundreds of them—lined the side channels, some pulled right up on shore, a few tethered to moorings, all ready to go at a moment’s notice. I’d never seen so many small aircraft in one place.

  There was no terminal. Just a tiny wood shack next to the dock where the plane was moored. Joe had flown on a different commercial flight and planned to meet up with us there. As we waited, we watched other planes take off every few minutes, their pontoons slapping over the water and throwing spray into the wind.

  On my first assignment with Agent Dalton in Costa Rica, Joe had played a rich exotic pet collector, complete with a penchant for expensive cigars and twenty-year-old scotch. Now he was my rich daddy, an oil tycoon intent on taking home a trophy. No doubt, scotch and cigars would play a role this time too.

  With his seniority, when he got an op approved, he had a decent budget to go with it. And boy, did he know how to do it up. When he strolled up to us, he looked the epitome of the part, like he was modeling for the Kuiu huntsmen catalog, with a Tilley waxed-canvas outback hat topping off the ensemble.