Thyme to Live: A We Sisters Three Mystery

by Miller, Melissa F.

  Officer Thompson cleared his throat. “Our department, the Movie and Television Unit, is coordinating with Mr. Callais here on a sting operation.” He gestured toward Victor.

  Cate turned her head in our direction. “And you’re a reporter from The New York Times.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but Victor answered it anyway. “That’s correct.”

  Her cool blue eyes slid over my face and she gave me a look that said, ‘I’ll deal with you and your bout of fake food poisoning later.’ Then she fixed her icy gaze back on Victor. “Now what would a financial reporter be doing in the middle of a Movie and Television matter?”

  One point for Cate (well, Maura). She’d done some research before we arrived. Although, minus one point because she didn’t seem to connect the surname Callais to her missing nanny. So, net gain: zero points.

  “Actually, it’s more that the authorities are helping me with a private matter,” he told her in a professorial tone.

  “Oh?”

  She waited.

  “My sister is missing. We have reason to believe she’s hiding from her abusive ex-husband, who just happens to be in law enforcement.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Cate said in a voice that sounded more bored than sympathetic. “But I’m not sure how any of this involves Whittier Media.”

  “My sister is Helena Callais. Your nanny.” His voice cracked. I patted his thigh in a quick gesture and hoped no one noticed.

  “Ah. The vanishing Helena. You know, Audra’s still crying herself to sleep.”

  He grimaced. “I’m sorry to hear that. And I know that Helena would be, too. She’s very fond of your daughter.” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “You have to believe me—if she didn’t believe her life was in danger, she never would have pulled a disappearing act.”

  At the words ‘her life was in danger,’ Cate suddenly became interested in the conversation. She sat up straight and gave Victor her full attention.

  “I’ve been trying to find her—with Thyme’s help,” he continued.

  “Thyme’s a yoga instructor,” Cate pointed out.

  “Yogalates, actually.”

  They both ignored me. Victor said, “She has a background in psychology and has been instrumental in helping me try to figure out what happened to Helena.”

  Cate pursed her lips and appraised me for a moment as if maybe I wasn’t quite as limited as she’d always believed.

  “And what did you two learn?”

  “We learned that Gabriel, Helena’s ex, had been in contact with her. We learned that she staged a violent scene at her apartment before she took off, and we learned that Gabriel has at least two armed, dangerous men combing the streets of New York looking for her.”

  “That’s where you come in,” Officer Thompson interjected. He lowered his voice an octave or two, maybe in an effort to sound more official. Whatever the reason, it seemed to work.

  “Of course. What can I do to help?”

  A small knock sounded on the door. I walked over and opened it for Maura, who wheeled in a cart of drinks and snacks.

  “Thanks,” she whispered. And then she was gone as quickly as she’d come. I wondered whether she had a stomach ulcer. I wondered how much money she made as the assistant to an uptight, controlling media mogul and whether it was worth all the stress.

  My musings were interrupted by the realization that everyone was looking at me.

  “Sorry, what did I miss?” I asked, flustered.

  “It’s your plan, Thyme. You should do the honors,” Victor said.

  “Oh, uh, okay.” I returned my coffee mug to the cart and kept my hands steady by sheer force of will. Cate Whittier-Clay made me nervous when she was in a modified camel’s pose with her elbows pinned behind her back and her face red from concentration and her consistent failure to breathe while she exercised. Sitting in her corner office, wearing her stylish Nina McLemore suit, and staring at me with rapt attention, she absolutely terrified me. She may as well have been breathing actual fire.

  “Based on everything we know, Helena went underground because she knew Gabriel was coming for her. And, given the way his thugs are acting, she made the right call. But, she didn’t leave any way for anyone to contact her—probably an effort to protect her family and her friends—and your family. So I was thinking if we had a high-profile, well-publicized funeral for her, then it might achieve two goals: one, it will probably smoke out Gabriel—or at least his henchmen. And they’ll give him up, right?” I turned to the police officers.

  “They always do on television,” Officer Thompson deadpanned.

  “And the second goal?” Cate asked.

  “If it gets enough press, Helena might find out about it. Since she knows she’s not dead, maybe she’ll reach out to Victor—or one of her friends.” That second part seemed weaker in the cold light of Cate’s office than it had at midnight through a haze of exhaustion and wine, but I nodded with authority as I said it.

  Cate blinked. “Don’t take this the wrong way—but are we sure she’s alive?”

  I hesitated, thinking about the note in Victor’s pocket.

  “No,” he said in a thick, strangled voice. “We’re not.”

  The air suddenly felt heavy and hot. The only sound in the otherwise silent room was the noise of Officer Jennings chewing as she gnawed her way through a handful of Cate’s favorite chef-made granola.

  “Sorry,” she said around a mouthful. “This stuff’s addictive.”

  Officer Thompson threw her a dark look. “It’s possible Ms. Callais is dead,” he said with all the finesse you’d imagine. “But it’s worth a shot to see if we can get this Vasquez dirtbag off the streets. So what we need you to do is to go on your channel and do a … what’s it called?”

  “A Cate the Great segment about losing your nanny in a tragic fashion,” I supplied. Cate did these periodic essays as if she were Mickey Rooney’s spiritual heir. They focused on her challenges as a working mother and a female CEO. Because nothing speaks more to the plight of the working woman than a multimillionaire with a staff of a half-dozen and money to throw at all her problems. But apparently, her audience loved them. She aired them on-line on her Periscope channel and plastered them all over social media. Inevitably, they went viral, aided—of course—by the pieces her columnists wrote about them and the mentions they got from cable show talking heads.

  She tilted her head in thought. “Hmm. It would certainly resonate. But it’s fundamentally dishonest. Whittier Media prides itself on its authenticity. I simply don’t elevate anything above the truth—not entertainment, not information, and, I’m afraid, not even helping the authorities.”

  I stared at Officer Thompson. He gave me a blank look. I thought that was it, but Officer Jennings saved our bacon.

  “Absolutely. I’m a big fan, Ms. Whittier-Clay, and I would never expect anything less from you. But I don’t think Ms. Field and Mr. Callais are planning to ask you to lie. And certainly, the NYPD wouldn’t agree to be part of something that’s not aboveboard. We’ve put in a permit for a live theatrical performance at Our Lady of Pompeii—that’s a Roman Catholic Church located in the Village. It’s where Ms. Callais worshipped. The play, if you will, will feature amateur actors, including Mr. Callais and Ms. Field, as well as several members of the Movie / TV Unit, who will be strategically placed around the venue. And you and your family, if you’d like to participate. We’ll work with you to craft a public statement that doesn’t contain any blatant lies.”

  Cate shook her head slightly. “How … politic.”

  Officer Thompson leaned forward. “It’s for the greater good.”

  “And The Times is going along with this?” she addressed Victor.

  He made a face like he had indigestion. It was true that the newspaper was running Helena’s obituary. But his employer didn’t necessarily know it was a ruse. Finally, he settled for the partial truth. “Yes.”

  She puffed o
ut her cheeks and exhaled. “I don’t like it. But I want to help your sister; Audra just adores her. And I have my own reasons. My mother was a victim of domestic abuse.”

  The room fell silent once more. This time, even Officer Jennings paused in her chewing. Cate got a faraway look in her eyes and said, “Well, let’s get this thing written and get on with it.”

  17

  From Cate’s office I headed straight home, tailed by the junior patrolman that Officer Thompson had insisted on assigning to protect me. The officer escorted me to my apartment and then returned to the street, where he sat in a squad car positioned so he could see the front door to my building and my window.

  Victor had also been sent home with his designated bodyguard. After all the tension and activity, I felt oddly lonely and at loose ends alone in my apartment. If I’m being honest, I also missed his company.

  I ate a light dinner, did a long stretching routine, then wandered around for a while, pacing aimlessly in the small space. Finally I drew a bath, adding calming essential oils to the hot water. I took a mug of herbal tea and my cellphone into the bathroom with me. I slipped into the tub and conference called my sisters.

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s about time!”

  They started talking over one another immediately. The combination of mother henning, scolding, and concern should have raised my already-high anxiety level through the ceiling, but I found it oddly comforting. More so than the bath and tea, even. My sisters’ attention and fretting was like an old, soft robe—familiar and cozy. It felt like love. I sunk further into the water and closed my eyes.

  “I’m fine. I’m safe and sound with a police officer posted down on the street in front of my building,” I assured them.

  “And Victor?” Sage asks in this sly, wink-wink-nudge-nudge voice.

  “He’s right here in the bath with me,” I said dryly. “Also safe and sound.”

  Predictably, Rosemary gave a scandalized gasp, and Sage giggled. I felt my lips curve into a smile.

  “Kidding, Rosie. I’m just joking. He’s back at his place—also with a uniformed babysitter.”

  “Thyme, really. So I take it Dave’s contact was able to help you?”

  “He was. Officer Thompson is an interesting guy. He could pass for Ryan Samson’s twin ….” I paused to wait for Sage’s dreamy sigh. She claimed her new boyfriend Roman bore more than a passing resemblance to the movie star, as well. But seeing as how the guy was wearing a golf cap and sunglasses in just about every picture she sent us, who could know?

  I continued. “He and his partner helped us convince Cate to post one of her video chats. It should be live now. Hang on; I’ll send it.”

  I dried my free hand on the towel I’d had the foresight to hang over the edge of the bathtub then navigated to Cate’s Periscope channel. I forwarded the link to my sisters so we could watch it together. Although at this point, Maura had no doubt already saved and shared it to Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and a whole slew of other social media sites I was way too unhip to even know existed.

  “Got it,” Rosemary said.

  “Me, too,” Sage chimed in.

  I hit the replay and watched as Cate leaned forward and stared into the camera with a sad smile and eyes that promised to fill with tears at any moment. She blinked and started speaking:

  “Hi, friends. You know I like to keep my Cate the Great segments upbeat and inspiring. I usually focus on all the GREAT parts of being a working mama. But today’s a sad day for this mom … and for her little girl. I’m sure I’ve mentioned Audra’s beloved nanny before. Helena’s been caring for my sweetpea since I returned to work full-time; although, of course, I worked very hard even before I came back to the office. Remember what I always say: balance is a myth; aim to stretch! Anyway, New York’s Finest paid me a visit today.” She paused here and choked back what sounded like real tears. “Helena went missing last weekend. I scrambled to arrange a patchwork of care for little Audra, always believing that it would be a temporary solution. Today, I learned it’s permanent. Tomorrow, I’ll have to take my sweet angel to Our Lady of Pompeii Shrine Church at eleven a.m. to say goodbye to her sweet angel, Helena Callais. Our Lady of Pompeii is the Roman Catholic Church in Greenwich Village that welcomes immigrants, those who speak Portuguese, in particular. It makes sense that Helena, who was from Brazil, would want to have her funeral Vigil held at Our Lady. I hope you’ll take a moment to think of us tomorrow and to give your pumpkin an extra squeeze before you leave for work. Cate Out.”

  Rosemary spoke first. “Nice plug for her ‘Strength, Not Balance’ Campaign.”

  I snorted. “It wasn’t nearly as clunky as the part where she explained where the Vigil would be, and why. But hey, if you parse her words, she didn’t actually say anything that’s demonstrably false. She’s pretty good.”

  “If by good, you mean slippery and disingenuous, I agree.”

  I let Sage’s disapproval go unchallenged. She worked for a stay-at-home socialite. Muffy Moore and Cate Whittier-Clay were as different as two mothers could be. Sage agreed with Muffy’s parenting style, for the most part. So it stood to reason she found Cate’s lacking.

  “As long as it works,” I said.

  “And if it does work, what then?”

  “The hope is that both Gabriel and Helena hear about Helena’s funeral and can’t resist showing up. Ideally, not at the same time.”

  “And then?” Rosemary pressed.

  “Then the police arrest Gabriel and his minions, and Helena lives happily ever after.”

  “Don’t you mean Victor and Thyme live happily ever after?” Sage asked.

  I thought about that for a moment. “I’m not sure. Circumstances threw us together. This might just be an adrenaline-fueled fling, not a serious thing.”

  They both started hooting and laughing at me.

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and huffed in irritation. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are,” Sage gasped between laughs. “Rosemary met Dave while he was investigating her for murder. And I rescued Roman from a killer. But, yeah, nobody starts a committed relationship under those sort of conditions.”

  “You’re so clueless, little sis. But that’s why we love you.” Rosemary’s amusement was tinged with affection.

  “Whatever. I have to go. I need to get a good night’s sleep for my big day.”

  We ended the call and I traded my phone for my mug of tea. I focused on relaxing my muscles and then my mind. I was so chill I didn’t hear the ping that announced the arrival of a text message.

  It wasn’t until I drained the bath and wrapped myself in my robe that I glanced at the screen and saw the notification. The text was from Victor.

  Cate’s going viral. NYT obit in the a.m. Pieces all in place. Only thing missing is you beside me.

  Warm anticipation blossomed in my chest and a stupid grin bloomed on my lips. I went to bed laughing at the giddy schoolgirl feelings that the financial reporter from Brazil stirred in me.

  Sweet dreams, I texted back before I turned out the lights.

  18

  I slept soundly and was awake well before the sun. But it felt strange to be back to my ordinary routine, even though I’d deviated from it for one day. It was as if the time I’d spent dodging gun-wielding attackers with Victor had changed everything—separating my life neatly into Before Victor and After Victor eras. Or maybe Before Bad Guys and After Bad Guys. Either way, I had to force myself to stay present in the moment as I met with my early morning clients.

  During Cate Whittier-Clay’s workout, she focused entirely on her flexibility exercises and didn’t so much as mention the upcoming sham funeral vigil or the buzz surrounding her viral video. It was as though the visit to her office the day before had never happened. For once, I appreciated her laser-like attention on herself.

  After Cate’s session, as I was leaving the Whittier-Clay penthouse, Audra peeked out from her bedroom.

  “Thyme
?” she said in a small voice, her face half hidden by the door.

  “Good morning, Audra.”

  “Helena’s in heaven with Nana Clay, now. Did you know that?” Her little lips wobbled but she didn’t cry.

  My heart sank. I’d hoped Cate would have kept the ‘news’ about Helena from her daughter. I walked over to the door and crouched to address her at her eye level.

  “I know you cared a lot about Helena. And I know she cared a lot about you.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  Luckily I didn’t have to try to come up with something, because just then Janie appeared in the doorway behind Audra. She held a black silk ribbon in one hand and a hairbrush in the other.

  “Come on, sweetness, it’s time to do your hair and put on your dress.”

  “But I don’t want to wear black. Yellow was Helena’s favorite color, like the sun.” Her lower lip started trembling again. This time, tears fell from her eyes, too. Fat, fast tears that ran down her cheeks in rivulets.

  Janie put down the brush and hair bow and picked up the little girl. Audra threw her arms around her new nanny’s neck. Janie rubbed her back and made a soothing, repetitive hushing sound. I took a step closer and caught the other woman’s eye.

  “Cate’s not really planning to take her to the church, is she?”

  Janie raised her eyebrows and gave me a look that said it all. “Mr. Clay and I shared our thoughts about the idea, but Ms. Whittier-Clay feels that it’s important that the press see that she treats her daughter like a little human being and allows her to mourn.”

  I bit down so hard that I drew blood from my lower lip. Un-freaking-believable. Cate not only told her kid that her beloved nanny was dead, she was going to drag the poor thing to the fake funeral vigil because of the optics. Nice.

  Once I thought I could speak without shrieking, I said, “At least let her wear yellow.”

  The nanny held my gaze for a long moment. “I suppose it would be fine. Poor girl. So much heartache for a little one.” She continued to rub Audra’s narrow back. The girl rested her head on Janie’s shoulder and sighed.