Maggie Lee (Book 16): The Hitwoman Plays Chaperone

by Lynn, JB

  “Yeah, right.” She turned to look out the passenger window, making it clear she wasn’t happy with my reticence.

  But what could I do? There was safety in denial.

  “So the Concords sent their chauffeur to the B&B to bring me back,” I said, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

  Armani remained silent, sulking.

  I too stopped speaking, feeling badly that she felt I wasn’t sharing with her, but unwilling to actually admit that I could talk to animals and that they help me. It was one thing for her to guess that I did, it was something else to confirm it.

  After all, I was the child of a woman who resided in a mental institution. I couldn’t risk joining her.

  Then again, accepting the Concords’ invitation might have proved more risky than I’d imagined.

  Chapter Seven

  The Concord Estate was pretty impressive. We followed the chauffeur through an ornate iron gate and up a long, winding driveway that led to a gigantic white house.

  “Old money,” Armani said with a note of appreciation as she climbed out of the car. “No McMansions for these people.”

  While she was busy admiring the architecture, I was struggling to breathe through the sense of trepidation that was cutting off my air supply.

  “No weird feelings about this place?” I choked out as I stood up, surveying the area nervously.

  Armani glanced over at me. “No.” She frowned. “Hang on a second.” She began to rummage around in her oversized purse.

  The chauffeur stared at her with obvious concern.

  “She’s a friend,” I assured him, realizing it must seem strange that I’d brought along a buddy to meet the Concords.

  “If you’ll follow me, Miss Lee.” The chauffeur indicated I should follow him into the house.

  “Just a sec,” I murmured, watching as Armani pulled out a purple cloth bag and shook it.

  I rounded the car to stand beside her. Without being told, I reached into the bag and pulled out seven of the small wooden tiles. Some psychics read crystal balls, some tea leaves, some palms, but Armani reads Scrabble tiles.

  I placed the tiles face up on the hood of my car, ignoring the impatient sighing of the nearby chauffeur.

  C I O O P R S

  “I or cops?” Armani said, trying to translate the meaning of the letters.

  “Great,” I muttered. Like I didn’t have enough problems with cops.

  “Or maybe O Sip Crop,” she suggested. “Maybe you shouldn’t turn down whatever fabulous vintage they’re about to offer you.”

  “That’s eight letters, not seven.” Scooping the tiles off the car, I dropped them back into Armani’s bag.

  She sighed her disappointment. ”Killjoy.”

  “Okay,” I told the chauffeur. “Let’s go.”

  “Surprised they’re letting us in through the front door,” Armani muttered under her breath as we climbed a short flight of stairs.

  “Play nice,” I warned. “Imagine what kind of money these people could throw at your interior decorating business.”

  “Lottery winner,” she reminded me as we reached the door that the chauffeur was pointing at. “I don’t need no stinkin’ jobs.”

  I admit that I chuckled at that.

  A stern-looking woman in a plain, gray dress opened the door and ushered us inside a marble-encased foyer with a ridiculously high ceiling and a crystal chandelier that glittered more than a seventies disco ball.

  Armani scowled up at the light fixture and I held my breath, waiting for her to say something insulting about it. She surprised me by remaining silent.

  “Please follow me,” the woman said in a hushed tone normally reserved for libraries and funeral homes. “Mrs. Concord is wrapping up a phone call and will be down soon.”

  She led us into a sitting room off the foyer, a stuffy, pretentious room replete with antique furniture and the entire lineage of Concords displayed in commissioned portraits.

  “Wait here.” The Concords’ employee backed out of the room, sliding a pocket door closed, effectively sealing us into the family tomb.

  “I should have my portrait done,” Armani announced studying the paintings on the wall.

  I kept my mouth shut, secretly glad that she hadn’t suggested hanging her boudoir pictures.

  “I wonder how I find a painter,” she mused.

  I shrugged, having never had need of a portrait artist.

  “Maybe I’ll get whoever does the President of the United States.”

  I raised my eyebrows but remained silent.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” a voice said as the pocket door slid open. “And I’m even more sorry that Beatrice locked you in the mausoleum.”

  The woman who entered was not the old-money, polite-but-distant socialite I’d imagined. She sported maroon hair, a bright tropical-colored outfit that made her look like a Hawaiian tourist, and a warm, engaging smile.

  “Let’s do this in the kitchen. It’s been a long day and I’m feeling a little peaky.” She waved for us to follow her, and hurried away, her flip-flops slapping against the marble with each step.

  “Peaky?” Armani asked as we hurried after her.

  “I think she’s hungry.”

  “Oh good. Me too.”

  Mrs. Concord waited for us in the doorway of the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “A crop!” Armani whispered victoriously.

  “Please,” we answered simultaneously.

  “Have a seat.” The lady of the house plopped into one of the Windsor side chairs surrounding the table in the center of the room.

  I sat down opposite her.

  “I love what you’ve done with this room,” Armani said, admiring the country kitchen styling that didn’t look like it belonged in the same house as the foyer and sitting room.

  “I refinished all of the pieces myself,” Mrs. Concord revealed proudly. “It’s a hobby of mine.”

  “Beautiful work.” Armani stroked the top of a chair before settling into it.

  Another woman, wearing the same gray dress as the woman who’d let us into the house, put a tray of coffee and cookies down on the table. “Should I pour, ma’am?”

  “No thank you, Connie.” Mrs. Concord quickly poured coffee for the three of us, offering cream and sugar with her easy smile.

  The trepidation I’d felt outside was a distant memory as she put me at ease.

  “Now which of you is the brave woman who saved my grandson?” she asked once we’d all been served.

  I raised my hand tentatively. “That would be me.”

  Mrs. Concord reached across the table and grabbed my hand, her eyes welling with tears. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Anyone else would have done the same, Mrs. Concord,” I assured her.

  “Edith,” she corrected, patting my hand. “Try a butter cookie. They’re simply divine.”

  “Edith,” I repeated as she released me. Dutifully I took a cookie.

  I picked up my drink and sipped. I closed my eyes to fully appreciate that it was probably the best coffee I’d ever tasted, deep and full-bodied without a hint of bitterness. I made a mental note to suggest to Armani that she invest some of her lottery winnings in coffee.

  Edith turned her attention to Armani. “And who’s your friend?”

  “Armani Vasquez,” Armani replied before I could answer. She extended her good hand. “I’m Maggie’s psychic advisor.”

  I gulped, choking and spluttering on my coffee like a kid in a swimming pool who’d gotten water up her nose. It burned and tears streamed down my face as I tried to breathe. Overwhelmed by a fit of coughing, I managed to slosh half of my drink on my shirt. So much for getting dressed up for the occasion.

  Edith stared at me, aghast. I was pretty sure the rich and famous aren’t accustomed to watching lowly mortals gasp for breath.

  Armani though sprang into action, jumping up from her seat and pounding on my back with her good hand like she was giving CPR to
a dying orca whale.

  “Ow!” I protested waving her off. “Ow!”

  “Excellent,” she beamed.

  I wanted to ask her what was so damn excellent about it, but I was overcome by another coughing fit. One that was so strong I feared I’d dislodged my diaphragm.

  “If you can talk, you can breathe,” Armani informed me. “Say something.”

  Considering the only thing I could think of saying was a two-word phrase that started with an F and ended with a U, she should have been satisfied with the unintelligible grunt I gave her.

  “Can you talk, dear?” Edith asked worriedly.

  “Yes,” I managed to choke out. “Sorry.”

  Edith smiled kindly. “No need to apologize dear, it happens to the best of us. I remember one time I was overcome with a sneezing fit.” She shook her head at the memory. “At a White House dinner, no less. I was mortified.”

  “Do you know who paints the president’s portrait?” Armani interjected, sinking back into her seat.

  Edith blinked, surprised by the question. “I’m afraid not.”

  I shot Armani a warning look. Her response was to push a handful of napkins into my hand so that I could mop up the mess I’d made.

  “No need to do that,” Edith said as I started to dab at a puddle of coffee on the table. “Connie?” she yelled.

  “Well who does your portraits?” Armani pressed.

  “I’ve never had my portrait painted.”

  “But...,” Armani hesitated, “the family gallery.”

  “Only blood Concords,” Edith explained easily as Connie arrived table-side.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Connie asked.

  “Can you find a clean shirt for Miss Lee?”

  Connie looked me over and said, “Of course,” before hurrying away.

  “There’s no need,” I protested.

  “Nonsense,” Edith countered. “No doubt you’re still shaken up from your earlier ordeal. No need to sit around in a wet blouse. Besides, I’ll need your full attention.”

  “For what?” I asked suspiciously.

  “I need to ask a favor of you.”

  Before she could elaborate, Connie returned and handed me a bright orange t-shirt. “I’ll show you to the powder room.”

  I got up from the table grudgingly, afraid of what Armani would say or do in my absence. I kept glancing back over my shoulder as Connie led me away.

  “And bring some of those cute little poppyseed muffins when you come back,” Edith called after us. “Maggie must try one.”

  Once I was inside the marble powder room, I forced myself to look at my reflection in the gilt mirror. My face was still blotchy from my choking fit and my shirt looked like a baby had pooped down the center. No wonder Edith Concord thought I needed to change.

  I splashed water on my face before peeling off the soaked shirt and unfolding the orange replacement that had Concord Industries emblazoned across the front.

  My cell phone, stuck in the back pocket of my jeans, buzzed. Pulling it out, I frowned at Zeke’s name.

  “What?” I whispered as I answered the call.

  “There may be a bit of a problem,” Zeke replied.

  “What now?” I whispered back.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because I’m in the bathroom.”

  “You didn’t have to answer your phone in the bathroom,” a note of disgust crept into Zeke’s voice.

  I imagined him wrinkling his nose and felt compelled to explain, “I was changing my shirt.”

  “In the bathroom?”

  “Where else would I do it?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Where are you?”

  “In the bathroom,” I told him again. “At the Concord Estate.”

  He let out a low appreciative whistle. “Have you seen any of their artwork? Did you get a look at the security system?”

  “What?” Sometimes I forget that Zeke has thieving tendencies.

  “The alarm. Can you study it?”

  Before he could ask anything else, I said, “Tell me about the problem du jour.”

  “It’s Susan.”

  “It often is,” I sighed.

  “She suspects that you and Darlene were in contact before today.”

  I frowned.

  “She thinks you always knew she was alive,” Zeke elaborated.

  “Oh. Come. On.” I squeezed my phone. “How can she think that? She saw how miserable I was for years.”

  “I know,” Zeke soothed. “She’s just being unreasonable. But that’s not the real problem.”

  My chest tightened with anxiety. “What is?”

  “She wants Griswald to trace all your phone activity for the past few years.”

  For a moment the significance of that didn’t hit me. When it did, when I was struck by the fear that my phone could place me at a number of murder scenes, I stopped breathing.

  “Do you understand what this means?” Zeke’s voice crackled with panic. “They’ll be able to track my movements.”

  I forced myself to breathe, remembering that Zeke didn’t know that I’m a part-time assassin. He was only concerned with what my phone could reveal about him. There was no reason to alert him that I had just as much, hell, more probably, to lose than he did.

  “I’ll talk to her,” I promised, knowing I’d do it as much to save my ass as his.

  “Soon,” he implored.

  “Tonight,” I promised. “Bye.” I hung up before he could freak out any more.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, I tried to steady myself. I needed to have my wits about me when Mrs. Concord asked me for this “favor” she wanted. If not, I had the distinct impression that I could end up getting myself in trouble.

  And I certainly had enough trouble in my life.

  Chapter Eight

  “I still say,” Armani repeated for the third time, “that they should spend their money on a professional bodyguard for the kid.”

  I nodded, just like I had the other times she’d said the same thing. The first two times, I’d reminded her that she’d seen me recommend the same exact thing to Mrs. Concord. Now I just remained silent as I squeezed the steering wheel of my car and drove back toward the B&B.

  “So why did you agree to it?” Armani asked.

  “Because I figured something was better than nothing,” I answered on a tired sigh. “I wasn’t impressed by the guys in suits. The kid needs someone looking out for him.”

  “But why you?”

  “What do they say?” I muttered. “Once you save someone’s life you’re responsible for them forever.”

  “You have more than enough responsibilities.”

  Like I needed the reminder.

  “It’s one night,” I countered weakly.

  “One snooty night,” she groused.

  I didn’t disagree with her on that. An evening of fundraising for the governor’s re-election campaign at the planetarium didn’t sound like fun to me either.

  “Wait until you tell your aunts. They’ll be over the moon.”

  Armani’s exaggeration of the bad pun made me smile despite the fact she was driving me crazy. Still, I kept my voice serious when I informed her, “I’m not telling them.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s too much going on with Darlene’s return from the dead.”

  “Do I hear a note of bitterness, chica?”

  I shrugged.

  Armani fell silent.

  That’s not a good sign. It meant she was thinking. That’s never a good thing.

  I tried to get her mind off whatever she was plotting. “Have you decided what to spend your money on…besides a portrait?”

  “No.”

  Startled by the one syllable reply, I glanced over at her. Brow furrowed, she was staring out the driver’s side window.

  I swallowed hard. Seeing her deep in thought was disturbing. “Penny for your thoughts?” I asked with forced lightness.

  “We should try to
find out who wants to hurt the kid,” she declared.