I told him, much to his amusement. But as I followed him up the stairs to our renovated apartment, I was apprehensive about how he’d react.
He opened the door, took half a dozen steps inside, and fell to his knees. “The beautiful wallpaper. It’s gone! I knew the furniture was a write-off, but you didn’t tell me about the wallpaper. Do you know how many hours it took me to draw eyes on all those pineapples? And how many girls I brought home that were creeped out by those eyes? And the new table is nice enough, but what about my Ninja Turtle stickers? Even that filthy green carpet held so many memories. Like the stain from when you tried to make squid ink pasta and Meow got into it then vomited it back up.”
Meow wriggled out of his arms as if in protest at the memory.
I looked around. It was a vast improvement. The walls and ceiling were freshly painted white, and the musty green carpet had been replaced with a sensible blue-and-gray fleck. Regrettably, the half-a-century-old linoleum had been deemed okay. That stuff was invincible. I’d chosen muted blue couches and a simple white TV cabinet, coffee table, and dining set. Plus I’d lashed out on a thirty-inch flat screen, a few throw cushions, and a houseplant. The effect was far from glamorous, but it was serviceable and had a calming, fuss-free vibe.
Except for the houseplant, which I was almost certain to kill.
I went over to Oliver, who was still kneeling on the new carpet. “I thought you might feel that way, so I got you some housewarming gifts. I know it’s not housewarming in a traditional sense, but maybe it’ll help you warm to the house.” I gave him the two presents I’d wrapped.
He tore them open, and a smile crept across his face. “I love them. Thank you.” He walked over to the table and stuck down the new Ninja Turtle stickers, then looked at the remaining gift.
“I actually took the liberty of putting a hook up for you,” I pointed out.
In the middle of the bright white wall that had once featured the hideous wallpaper was a hook. He hung the frame up on it. It was a piece of the old wallpaper, complete with creepy pineapple eyes. He stepped back and admired it before turning to me. “You’re officially forgiven.”
With Mr. Black cleared of all charges, the apartment fixed, Oliver back, and Mae planning to return to her home in San Bernardino County tomorrow, we decided to hold our own belated New Year’s party.
Connor had kindly offered to host. Probably thanks to some heavy-handed hints on Mae’s part.
Moments before Oliver, Etta, Dudley, Meow, and I were due to leave, a UPS guy delivered a large parcel. There was a note attached.
Isobel,
Turns out the angry, sultry look really works on me. I was René Laurent’s top pick for the Scandalous Cause calendar.
I also realized you’re nothing like my husband’s type. He tends to appreciate the finer things in life.
Take care, Vanessa
Inside the box was a great deal of bubble wrap and tissue paper, and underneath all that, a vase. At least I thought it was a vase. It was the color of our old carpet, overlaid with ornate white-robed figures and what looked like a goat.
It was hideous.
I had no idea whether Vanessa meant it as a genuine gift, was getting rid of an unwanted Christmas present, or whether the ugliness of the piece was a reflection of her feelings toward me.
Oliver wandered out of the bedroom, Meow clinging to him as if he might abandon her again.
“Holy cow, Iz. That looks like a Wedgewood.”
“A wedge what?”
“A Wedgewood. It’s a famous old pottery brand. Even older than the Queen. And if that’s a genuine piece, it’d be worth at least two grand. Maybe three.”
I stared at him, unsure whether my incredulity was due more to its estimated value or the idea that Oliver would admit to recognizing something so pretentiously materialistic.
“What?” His tone was defensive. “My mother loves them. But then she loves the Queen too, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
He came over and picked it up.
“Careful,” I said, suddenly feeling protective of the ugly thing. A couple grand would go a long way toward covering some of the furniture I’d had to buy.
He tipped it upside down and looked at the bottom of it. “Yep, it’s got the Wedgewood mark on it, see?” He put it down and grabbed the note. “Who’s Vanessa?”
Damn. I could hardly pass that off as a nickname for Connor.
“Someone I did a favor for.”
He whistled. “Must’ve been some favor.”
“It was,” I lied. Then I carried it into my bedroom, laid it down on my new duvet cover, and promised that I’d list it on eBay tomorrow.
Connor and Harper were making cocktails when we arrived. His hands were full, and he wasn’t prone to public displays of affection, but his eyes lit up when he saw me, and that was better than if he’d run over and twirled me around in his arms.
The Tudor mansion included an entertainment room complete with its own kitchenette-cum-bar. How handy. Mae was sitting on a couch with her feet up, a half-empty dirty martini in hand, and a glittery pink party hat on her head.
“It’s time we share our New Year resolutions,” she announced. “Who wants to start?”
No one volunteered.
“All right, I will then. This year I’m going to try to win a prize at the San Bernardino County Distillery Club for my gin, and I’m going to come back to LA for a few extra visits. Since my children could obviously benefit from some more maternal guidance.”
Connor and Harper exchanged glances. Etta and I snickered. Oliver raised the glass he’d just been given and said, “Mine’s kind of the opposite of yours. I will again resolve not to aspire to any levels of fame, and I’ll return to England as rarely as possible because my family doesn’t appreciate my guidance anyway.” Then, bartender that he was, he wandered over to study the liquor collection.
That at least made me feel better about my own lack of resolution. I didn’t want to admit to the duvet cover thing.
Seeing Oliver and Harper in close proximity had me hoping they might hook up. They were both laid-back, playful souls who could be wonderful for each other. But Oliver only had eyes for the alcohol and Harper was thinking hard, trying to come up with her own resolution.
“I’ve got one,” she said. “I’m going to convince Connor to purchase a car that isn’t black.” She punched him in the arm. “What about you, brother?”
He grunted and kept making cocktails.
“If you won’t participate, we’ll have to come up with one for you,” Mae threatened.
“I’ll go first!” Harper sang a little too quickly. “This year Connor will try to be less… well… Connor-ish.”
I smirked. “And he’ll start talking so much that one of us will actually need to tell him to shut up.”
We all snickered some more.
Etta sipped her drink, then held up her hand. “My turn. He’ll invite Izzy to move in with him… permanently.” Everyone oohed. “And then invite me and Dudley too,” she added, “since there’s plenty of room.”
Dudley was stretched out on one of Connor’s designer couches looking very content with himself. I figured that meant he was amenable to the idea.
When we finished laughing, I pointed a finger at Etta. “What about you? I hope your New Year resolution includes no more amateur sleuthing in the coming twelve months.”
She put down her drink with a thud. “Are you kidding me? We saved an innocent man from going to jail, kept a loving family together, rescued a grieving widow and her son, and took down a frigging serial killer! I’m just getting started!”
Everyone laughed.
Except me.
Or Connor, naturally.
Then I noticed Mae wasn’t laughing either. “Actually, she’s not kidding. We’ve been talking about it, and we’re going to revive my old PI firm and go into business together.”
Silence reigned. Harper had frozen with her drink halfway to her mo
uth. Connor had the clearest emotion I’d ever seen on his face. It was horror.
Then Etta sniggered, and she and Mae collapsed into merry hysterics, clutching their stomachs like they might burst.
Despite the realization that I’d been pranked—again—the sound of their mirth failed to completely wash away my unease.
From the Author
I hope you loved POISON IS THE NEW BLACK. That way I can rub it in my brother’s smug face since he scoffed at me when I first started writing at the tender age of sixteen. If you want to help me make sure he gets his comeuppance, take a minute to leave me a review or mention this book to a friend who’ll also enjoy it. That’ll show him.
As a small token of my appreciation for everyone who already did this for other books in the series, I drew you this picture of my brother sulking on the floor. Enjoy!
My brother sulking on the floor
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to my readers for giving me an excuse to spend all day, every day with the people in my head instead of having to venture into the real world.
Sincere gratitude to my incredible beta readers, Tess, John, Rosie, Bec, James, and Mum, who have not only read every book twice but are also very forgiving of my lack of social skills. I’m not quite as bad as a club-dragging Neanderthal, but still.
To the proofreaders and final pass editors at Victory Editing, thank you again for pointing out my every mistake. You guys should meet my older brother sometime. I think you’d get along.
To my husband, thank you for being nothing like my big brother. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you keep that beard though.
And to God, for His grace and patience in loving me through every hurdle that comes my way—whether real or invented by my own imagination (SPOILER: It’s mostly the latter).
Excerpt from EAT, PRAY, DIE
(Book #1 of the series)
I’ve had job interviews that felt like a matter of life and death before, but this one actually was.
The elevator shared none of my fears and shot skyward. I watched the golden numbers light up, one by one, ignoring the butterflies trying to start a dust devil in my empty stomach. In typical Los Angeles fashion, even the damn elevator was more glamorous than me.
I patted my unruly, shoulder-length hair—a nervous habit I’d developed over twenty-nine years of experiencing it having a mind of its own. There was no mirror to check it in, so patting would have to do.
I patted at it some more.
The nagging fear I might be underdressed rose with every floor I passed.
Twenty-three lit up, and the doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, reminding me of one of Aunt Alice’s disapproving sighs. Aunt Alice and her perfect children never had problems getting their hair to behave.
I stepped out into the silent, insulated corridor and checked the note I’d written on my left palm hours earlier when my handler had called to set up the meeting. The ink had faded from four bathroom breaks in the interim, but I could just make it out: 2317. The door I needed. I walked until I found it then made sure my shaking hand gave it a firm, audible knock.
“Come in.”
I took a moment to steel myself. I was about to meet my first potential client. If he hired me, I would risk my life to protect him.
If he didn’t hire me, maybe I could talk him into pushing me down the elevator shaft on the way out.
I shouldered past the heavy door and stepped into a room that looked like it had been plucked from a European design magazine, complete with a gorgeous view through the floor-to-ceiling windows and a sleek rosewood desk that had nothing on it but the token MacBook Pro. I fought back a smirk. Where did this guy keep his stuff?
The man in question was sitting behind the desk, surveying me with a cool expression. He looked to be in his mid- to late-thirties, but in the sexist way of the world, the lines on his face made him seem distinguished. His dark hair was a smidge past buzz-cut length and struck an incongruous note, hinting he was more practical than the office suggested. My gaze dropped from his hair down to his eyes. They were the stern gray of an overcast wintry morning—the likes of which I hadn’t seen since moving to California—and just as inexorable. The clean-shaven square jaw and broad shoulders did not soften his image.
No, there was nothing soft about this potential client, and he didn’t look as if he needed my protection either—a notion intensified by the fact that my knees were wobbling and his weren’t. I told myself it was interview jitters and had nothing to do with the way his eyes were roaming over me.
Or my fleeting wish that it was his hands doing the roaming.
He did not invite me to sit, and I wondered if this was so he could gauge my competence level by my traitorous knees. I sat down anyway, lifted my chin, and put on my best impression of professional indifference.
My fear had been warranted; I was underdressed. The conservative navy-blue dress and heels I’d chosen to make the most of the slim build, blue eyes, and pale skin I’d inherited from my mother seemed drab compared to his sharp, tailored suit. Sure, I’d inherited the dress and shoes from my mother too, but I had been hoping they were old enough to pass for vintage.
By the time his eyes finished their roaming, his mouth had formed a hard line.
I forced myself to meet his gaze.
“Isobel Avery, I take it?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
He didn’t react to my Australian accent. Some Americans found it charming. My potential client wasn’t one of them.
“What experience do you have?”
I resisted the urge to lick my lips before answering, leaving me acutely aware of how dry they were.
“I’ve been selected for you by the Taste Society,” I said. “That’s as much as you need to know.”
In other words, none, zilch, nada. I’d just finished eight months of intensive training, and aside from that, I was as wet behind the ears as a newborn hippopotamus.
This job would either be my saving grace or the final rut in a long road of potholes. If I tripped and fell, I would lie and die where I landed, and they could use the shallow depression as the beginnings of my grave—since I sure didn’t have enough money for a proper burial.
One step at a time, I told myself. First get the job, then concentrate on whether you can pull it off.
I stared at him, willing him to say yes.
“You’ll have to do, I suppose,” he said.
I let out the breath I was holding. It wasn’t the most affirming job offer I’d ever received, but desperation is a wonderful substitute for rose-tinted glasses.
He stood up and withdrew two envelopes from his inner breast pocket. I caught a whiff of cold, biting citrus and sun-warmed leather as he handed them to me. They were toasty from being against his chest, and, for a brief second, I imagined slipping my hand under his jacket to the place they’d vacated.
I needed to get out more.
“The first envelope is from the Taste Society,” he said. “They asked me to give it to you if I approved you for the job. You’ll start at breakfast tomorrow. Before that, have my stylist give you a makeover.” He scanned me again. “A big one.”
Jerk.
He didn’t pause to let the insult sink in. “The stylist’s number and my schedule are in the other envelope.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Get a tan.”
“Sorry, I don’t tan.” Also compliments of my redheaded mother.
“You do if I say so, sweetheart. You’re in LA now, and I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
Ugh. Sweetheart. “No, I mean my skin goes bright red, then white again. So your options are beetroot or potato.”
“It’s called a spray tan.”
“I’m allergic,” I lied. He’d already given me the envelopes, and I figured it’d do him good to broaden his horizons. I smiled sweetly. “So, if it’s all right with you, I’m gonna go ahead and live to a ripe old age as a potato.”
I couldn’t tell if the barely perceptible shift of his eyebrows was from anger or amusement. “You chose an interesting profession for that.”
I brushed aside his comment and headed for the exit. After all, recruitment had told me the job wouldn’t affect my chances of longevity too much, and despite rumors to the contrary, I was taking their word for it.
I was broke, not suicidal.
In a last-ditch effort to resuscitate my dreams of leaving a good impression, I paused at the heavy door and gave my new client a wave. “See you tomorrow.”
He didn’t reply, but when I glanced back, I saw his contempt for my appearance hadn’t stopped his eyes from following my ass on the way out.
Find out more about EAT, PRAY, DIE on Amazon here.
Poison is the New Black: (Bonus story: Taste of Christmas) (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 3) Page 20
