Poison is the New Black: (Bonus story: Taste of Christmas) (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 3)

by Chelsea Field

  “Are you serious? I don’t think my legs could hold me.”

  He gave me a smug smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

  Hours later, I drove my beautiful company car—a middle-aged silver Corvette—to my apartment building in Palms and hurried up the two flights of external stairs. I had forty-five minutes to make myself presentable for tonight’s WECS Club function. It wasn’t going to be enough. But today had been a rare chance for Connor and I to spend a lazy afternoon together, and I’d wanted to make the most of it.

  At least I’d showered already.

  I crossed the third-floor stair landing and waved at the security camera Connor had installed this morning. It was his response to a couple of nasty gifts that had been left by my front door in the past week. Probably no one was monitoring the live camera feed, but waving made me feel less weird about the possibility.

  I had to avert my eyes from Santa’s bared butt cheeks as I unlocked the door. My housemate had decided a poster featuring the aforementioned butt cheeks with bright red letters spelling Merry Chrismyass was an improvement over the traditional wreaths. Christmas was now behind us (no pun intended), and today was Boxing Day, but I hadn’t found time to remove it yet. It would have to stay up awhile longer.

  Inside, the apartment was quiet. My housemate was in England visiting his family for the holiday season, so it was just me and his cat Meow. The place we called home was run-down and tacky compared to my new client or boyfriend’s grand residences. It had been built in the 1960s and retained the original kitchen, bathroom, and much of the flooring. Our mishmash of preloved furniture didn’t help. But the price was right, the neighborhood was safe, and the company was first-rate.

  I’d picked Meow up for a cuddle when Etta, my favorite neighbor, pushed through the door behind me.

  “Isobel. We need to talk.”

  She never called me Isobel anymore. My friends and family called me Izzy. Except when they were about to broach an uncomfortable topic or give me a lecture. This didn’t bode well.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry. Can this wait?”

  “No. It can’t. The time has come for me to tell you something. Something you’re not gonna like much, I’m afraid. You might want to sit down.”

  I looked her over. As usual, she was stylishly dressed. Today’s ensemble was a modern A-frame skirt in midnight hues, which ended above the knee, a simple black top, dangly earrings, and white hair pulled back in a loose bun. It was an outfit Connor’s stylist might have picked out for me, except Etta wore it better. But under the clothes, makeup, and cocky attitude, her frame was bony and frail and her blue eyes watery. I felt a throb of dismay. Was it her health?

  I knew she was old of course—in her seventies—but she made it so easy to forget the fact. She was ever elegant, smart as a whip, and had a zest for life that bordered on the wicked. I couldn’t imagine her dear self drained of that vitality. Couldn’t imagine the tedium of my apartment building without her.

  I sat down.

  She set her shoulders and pinned me with her gaze, nothing weak about it. “I know what you really do for a living.”

  My body froze while my mind raced. Over my oath of silence. The files I’d carefully hidden or destroyed. The lies I’d had to tell her, my housemate, my family, and now Connor’s family too. How had she figured it out?

  “I do understand why you’ve had to lie.” She helped herself to a cookie from the plastic container I’d left on the table. “I’m not even angry about it. But there’s no point going to such lengths to hide it from me now that I know.”

  My heart thudded along like a talentless three-year-old playing the bongo drum. Would they fire me? Or would they do worse than that? If there was one thing the Taste Society took seriously, it was secrecy. A Google search wouldn’t reveal a scrap of genuine information about them. How was that possible in this day and age? Especially with the number of people who knew of their existence. How they contained the leaks was something I’d avoided thinking about too closely.

  “They can’t be mad at you for it,” Etta said like she’d been reading my mind.

  Maybe that’s how she’d figured it out. Maybe she can read minds.

  I shook my head, hoping to knock the silliness out of it.

  If Etta could read minds, she was careful not to show amusement or alarm at my thoughts now. I remembered how, when I’d first met Etta, I’d suspected her of being a spy. Perhaps I should’ve listened to those instincts, as far out as they were…

  “They don’t need to find out that I know,” she continued. “Same with your clients. Those highfalutin folks are awful precious about their privacy, but my knowing won’t do them any harm. It’ll be our secret. No need to look so anxious.”

  I forced a nod. “Okay. Thanks.” My shoulders felt stiff—like the poop I was up to my neck in had caked and dried. “How… how did you figure it out?”

  She finished off the rest of her cookie before answering. “I thought you’d never ask. It was simple—or should I say, elementary, my dear Watson. Get it?” She flashed a smile. “When I found out that you and Connor worked together, I looked him up and saw he was in private investigation and security. Since he was so rich, I figured he must have been working for rich people, and that made the whole classified angle make sense too, seeing as they can be snooty about that sort of thing. Anyway, because you have no discernible skills or qualifications in investigation and security—I mean, for Pete’s sake, you don’t even like guns—there was only one job description that made sense. You’re a honeytrap!”

  My mind boggled. She thought I was like one of those women in James Bond?

  “That explains your widely varying wardrobe too. One day you’re in clothes that have never been in fashion, the next you’re the height of chic. At first I figured you wouldn’t be any good at that either. No offense, you’re cute and all, but you’re not exactly a smooth seductress. But then I realized that’s probably why you’re so good at it. You’re so naive and genuine that they’d never suspect a thing.” She slapped her leg and cackled as if this was the best joke she’d ever heard.

  I cracked my own smile, fighting like hell to keep my warring emotions off my face. Relief. Horror. Amusement. Fear at this new lie I’d have to embrace. “Very clever,” I said. “You should’ve been an investigator yourself.”

  “Funny you should say that.” Her eyes pinned me again. “That’s why I’m telling you this. Because we have a case to solve.”

  3

  I was afraid to ask. “A case?”

  “Yes. Abe’s been arrested.”

  She was talking about Abraham Black, the hired muscle who’d once tried to break my bones. He worked for the debt collection agency my loan shark back in Australia had enlisted to punish me when I was behind on my payments. Etta had since adopted him as a friend, mostly because she thought he was sexy.

  My feelings for him were in a different category altogether. “What was he arrested for?”

  “Murder.”

  “Shit, Etta. He’s a bruiser. He probably did it.”

  “That’s the same dumb-ass attitude that the police have. Just because his DNA’s on the guy who went and became a root inspector—”

  “Wait, became a what?”

  “You know, the victim. He’s checking out the grass from the other side. Taking a dirt nap. Going into the fertilizer business. Cashing in his chips. Basting the formaldehyde turkey—”

  I held up a hand even though a morbid part of me wondered how long she could go on. “Got it.”

  “So we need to help clear Abe’s name.”

  I still found her casual use of his first name weird. “Hang on a minute, why should we get involved? Let the police and the justice system do their work.”

  “I already told you. They’ve got the wrong attitude. It’s an open-and-shut case as far as they’re concerned.”

  “Maybe because it is.”

  She shot me a worse glare than the one she’d pu
lled out when I tried to give her a lesson on gun safety. It was true I wasn’t a big fan of firearms, but I was a fan of safety. Etta was more casual about such things.

  “Abe didn’t do it, Isobel.”

  Oh boy, here came another lecture.

  “Haven’t you heard of innocent until proven guilty? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  And I was, a bit, since she put it that way. When Mr. Black wasn’t trying to break my bones, he seemed like a nice enough bloke.

  “Okay, say he didn’t do it, what makes you think we can prove that? Didn’t you just finish telling me that I had no discernible skills in investigation work?”

  “Well sure. But you must’ve picked up some tricks working as a honeytrap, right?”

  I studied her face. Etta was a thrill seeker. In dangerous situations, she was in her element, whereas I was focusing on controlling my bladder. At present, there was too much excitement in her expression for comfort. But there was also a lot of righteous indignation and concern for her friend.

  “I’ll think about it,” I told her. “But now I really need to get ready for work.”

  “Absolutely not,” Connor said when I phoned and filled him in on Etta’s proposal. I was driving to Vanessa Madison’s house because she’d wanted to make sure I scrubbed up well enough to pass muster before my first public appearance. That and she needed to give me final instructions.

  I overtook the car in front of me. If I got green lights and minimal traffic all the way, I might not be late. “That’s what I thought you’d think, but Etta’s a hard woman to say no to.”

  “Say it anyway.”

  I snorted. “Sure, I remember when you stayed in the car so you didn’t have to face her wrath. And you don’t live next door to her.”

  He let silence trickle down the line while I overtook another car.

  I whooshed out a breath. “I’ll think about it.”

  Connor remained quiet. He was master of using the power of silence to get people to talk, or in this case, concede.

  Instead of conceding, I changed the subject. “So what are you up to tonight while I’m rubbing shoulders with some of LA’s most privileged women? Don’t you dare say it’s classified.”

  “I’m having a quiet night in.”

  “Really?”

  “You told me not to tell you it’s classified.”

  Ugh. “Right. Well, I’m pulling into the driveway, so I’ve gotta go. Enjoy your quiet night.”

  Before I left the car, I reviewed my mental notes on the brief the Taste Society had given me. It was an unusually short Shade assignment. Since threats to someone’s life or career were rarely fast to resolve, most lasted months and sometimes even years. But Vanessa Madison only required me for seven days.

  The WECS Club prided themselves on their charitable donations, but their most renowned annual fundraiser was “A Scandalous Cause.” It was a calendar that featured “tasteful, artistic, sensual” photos of the women from the club. For charity, naturally. Each beautiful, buffed, and surgically enhanced woman was posed and shot by fashion photographer Richard Newton, and the resulting photos were whittled down to the top twelve by superstar fashion designer René Laurent.

  Hard to tell whether the good they did for each year’s chosen charity outweighed the harm they did to women’s rights.

  The photo shoot was scheduled on January first, just a week away, and that was why Mrs. Madison had enlisted my services now. It was the biggest ego fest I’d ever heard of, and the winners would have a full twelve months to lord it over the losers.

  Of course, the original photo shoot had been scheduled a month ago, leaving plenty of time for the calendar to be produced and delivered for the new year. But it seemed one of the women’s sabotage attempts had gone awry. On the day of the shoot, the fashion photographer must have eaten something intended for one of the contestants and had been taken out of action by a dreadful case of diarrhea. Because he was in such high demand, the earliest he could reschedule was New Year’s Day. Which was why the claws had come out yet again and why Vanessa had hired a Shade. It was up to me to ensure not a pimple or rash marred her skin, that her body didn’t retain water, and that her digestive system stayed in excellent health.

  The Madisons’ maid let me in and showed me to a living area that was decorated similarly to the parlor but on a larger scale. Vanessa and a slender, dark-haired teenager who must be her daughter were sitting on the two lounges farthest apart. Vanessa with her spine straight and ankles crossed, and her daughter leaning against an armrest with her legs stretched out over the pale cream upholstery.

  Vanessa beckoned, and I went to her like a well-trained dog. Her daughter might have paid more attention if I actually was a dog. She didn’t bother to look up from her phone when we were introduced.

  Wonderful to see an inflated sense of self-importance runs in the family.

  I was wearing a floaty, mid-length beige skirt with matching three-inch heels and a white blouse. It was over the top and ill-suited for what was essentially a waitress role, but I’d wanted to please my new client.

  Good dog.

  Vanessa was dressed to intimidate in a deep red evening gown, red lipstick, and hair pinned into an elaborate updo. She practically oozed power, and I wondered what kind of man would choose her. Someone equally powerful? Or someone wanting to be led?

  “What does Mr. Madison do?” I asked since no one else was talking.

  The daughter snorted. “Anything with tits.” Then she flounced off, perhaps before her mother could yell at her.

  Vanessa, however, was unperturbed. “I send her to be educated at the prestigious Frederick Academy, and that’s how she ends up speaking,” she said dryly. “Whatever they’re teaching her there, it’s not manners.” She gave a slight shake of her head—just enough to make her red hair catch the light. “My husband’s a stockbroker. And we have an open marriage. He merely tends to take more advantage of it than I do.”

  Well, that was more information than I’d bargained for. She was so calm about it, as if it didn’t bother her in the least. I almost believed she didn’t. But there was a hint of tension around her mouth that made me remember she was a master of politics and power.

  The game said if you couldn’t control someone, you made it look like they were doing what you wanted anyway. If that wasn’t possible, you could circumvent any power they’d won by convincing the other players that their actions had no impact on you. It seemed a lonely way to live.

  Somehow I didn’t think Vanessa would appreciate my sympathy.

  She gestured for me to sit. “Now that my daughter has kindly gone out of earshot, let me run over tonight with you.”

  If the Westside Elite Charity Social (WECS) Club was a nest of vipers, then my client was the Queen. Beautiful women orbited around her in clouds of swirling perfume and swishing fabric like she was the center of their universe. Even those that resisted the pull found their eyes slanting in her direction, monitoring, waiting, scheming.

  The exclusive clubhouse was a graceful colonial building in Brentwood that overlooked lush, manicured gardens with an overabundance of rose bushes. Utterly impractical for the Los Angeles environment. The entire top floor had been turned into a single ballroom that served as a social and dining area, while downstairs boasted a full range of leisure and fitness offerings, from beauticians and masseuses to a gym with a pool. Tonight’s get-together was on the top floor.

  “I’ll ignore you,” Vanessa had warned me, “so that they’ll ignore you. It’s nothing personal.” While the decision was strategic, we both knew she’d prefer to ignore me under normal circumstances as well. “Once they’ve dismissed you as beneath their notice, you can listen in on their conversations and tell me things I need to know.”

  “That’s not part of my job description,” I’d protested.

  She’d counted out five one hundred dollar bills and slid them across the table. “It is for an extra grand. You’ll get the rest on January
first when you’ve proven yourself.”

  I’d bitten my tongue and taken the money.

  Now I stood on the outskirts, my back to the wall, waiting to be summoned like a condemned poison taster for an ancient king. She had a glass of wine in her hand but never sipped it.

  True to her word, I was, for all intents and purposes, invisible.

  I was also trying not to breathe. Expensive fragrance coated the air. Alluring, exotic, fresh, or playful, it didn’t matter. Each of them affected my abilities to taste and smell clearly.

  We’d done a whole course on this during my Shade training. There were three issues at work: olfactory fatigue which reduced your overall sense of smell and was caused by smelling new scent after new scent; olfactory habituation, whereafter being exposed to the same scent for a length of time, the body temporarily filters it out so you can’t smell that particular scent; and olfactory irritation or distraction, where your sense of smell is temporarily impaired by strong or irritable scents.

  Experts were uncertain whether these impairments were caused physiologically by the scents coating the olfactory receptors or psychologically through the brain’s processing of information from those receptors. To combat this, we’d spent months smelling every base note commonly found in relevant poisons, learning them intimately and visualizing them to make it easier for us to register and identify them in unideal situations.

  I was listening to a heated debate over the merits of Botox versus Dysport when Vanessa beckoned me forward. Did these women know that both of those drugs had been developed from the same bacterium that caused life-threatening botulism?

  “I’m hungry,” Vanessa said. “Find me something to eat.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Madison.”

  She’d made arrangements with the kitchen staff. I was her spiritual food adviser, whatever the heck that was, and would oversee her meals myself to ensure they matched her aura. In reality, I would go to the kitchen, choose a meal option I could taste without ruining the presentation of the food, then serve her myself and watch like a hawk to make sure no one slipped anything into it after I’d already tested it. My eyes felt tired already.