Aye, I am a Fairy (The Fairies Saga Book 2)

by Dani Haviland

  “Well,” James in America replied, “compared to what’s been happening here in the last few days, this is pretty tame. I’ll tell you what I’d like you to do. Scan and email me a copy of the map and the note. Then take the originals, put them into a different envelope, and put it in the safe there at the club. Write something like ‘recipes for eel pie’ and your name on the outside, so no one will bother it. Do you need my email address?”

  “No, sir; I still have it. Oh, and your solicitor came in just a bit ago. He thought you were here. He said if I heard from you that you were to call him right away. However, I think he’s still here. Would you like me to patch you through?”

  “Yes, please do, and thank you.”

  While James waited for the call to go through, he put the map back inside the envelope and wrote ‘17/8/2013, double X, trocars, and IV tubing’ on the back of it, then added LEAH in bold letters.

  James in England came back on the line, “Lord James, could you wait just a moment longer? He is, um, indisposed, but wanted to speak with you.”

  “Fine, I’ll hold.” James leaned back into the seat and relaxed, eyes closed as he wondered about the note, and what it could mean. As he sat, his pen moved by itself across the back of the envelope, like a planchette over a ouija board.

  “Hello, hello, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. What’s going on?” James asked anxiously, as he sat up to speak with Alfred Schofield, his lawyer. He looked out and saw Leah walking slowly, head down, toward the car.

  “It’s final, the divorce is final. But get this—she perjured herself so many times, the judge threw out her half of the community property award. She doesn’t get a penny! Now I guess she’s running around, trying to take back all of the donations you gave to various charities and organizations in the past. What she’s doing borders on extortion. I didn’t know if you wanted me to do something about it or not. I would suggest a letter to all of the institutions, explaining the status of your marriage to her, and that you do not condone her actions. I’d be more than happy to take care of this for you. Good Lord, I’d do it for free just to see that…that…tramp gets knocked back down into the gutter from whence she came. Oh, sorry—I get carried away when it comes to her.”

  “No, don’t do it for free, but definitely do it, and do it quickly. Just take your usual fee from the legal expenses account. And one other thing: I did a bit of bartering with the clerk at the auxiliary postal outlet just south of Westminster. His name is Richard Smith. He now owns the Corniche, free and clear. Clotilde’s been threatening him. What I’d like you to do is make sure she knows that if she tries to talk to him about anything, she’ll be jailed for assault. He’s a good man, so if he needs anything else, take care of those needs, too. Now, it looks like I’ll be gone longer than I had planned. I’ll be checking in with James Bradford, there at the club, so if you have a message for me, give it to him. Look, I have to go now. Thanks for all that you’ve done. Good-bye for now.”

  Leah leaned over and looked in through her opened driver’s side window to see if he was done with his phone calls. James saluted her with the phone, then put it in his shirt pocket. “You forgot to change clothes at the police station,” he said with a grin as he looked down at her clutching her—rather his—trousers.

  Leah smiled back, the weight of her dilemma now lighter since she had someone to share it with. “No worries. Here, scoot over into the driver’s seat. I’ll change in the car.”

  James looked over at the limited area between the seats, then down to his long—well, longer than hers—legs, opened his door, and got out.

  Leah saw the ‘look,’ and followed his visual suggestion to walk around to the other side. He held the door open for her and grinned. She reached in behind the seat, pawed through the big white shopping bag, found the orange sundress she had selected from the clearance rack, tossed it over her head, and unbuttoned the shirt underneath it. She pushed her hands through the armholes of the sleeveless dress, then tugged off the shirt, all while under cover of cotton. She then plopped down into the passenger seat, and gave him a rebellious scowl that seemed to say, ‘Hey, I’m sure I could have done it in the driver’s seat, but I’ll do it your way.’ She kicked off her sandals, placed her bare feet on the dashboard, and lifted her bottom. She wiggled and tugged, but with no success. Even though the jeans she had borrowed from him were too big for her, she still couldn’t get them off. She wouldn’t stop trying, though, and grunted and cursed, as if that would help. Her brow beaded up with sweat, as did other parts of her body, which made her frustrated struggle even harder—the pants were stuck to her body.

  James waited outside the car, arms crossed in front of his chest, right index finger tapping a silent tattoo on his elbow. He didn’t say a word until it became obvious that she wasn’t going to give up, even though there was no way she could win the battle of de-pantsing herself while crammed into the front seat of a summer-heated sub-compact car.

  “Here, get out and stand up to take them off. I’ll play dressing room wall,” he said, and opened the door, keeping his back turned to her, providing a privacy barrier, in case other visitors drove into the parking lot.

  Thirty seconds later, she said, “There, done,” and sat back in the passenger’s seat to put her sandals back on. She looked up at him and said, “Yes, I could have taken the clothes inside and changed in the ladies room, but then I would have had to either carry them around or bring them back here.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” James said. He didn’t tell her that he had been thinking it hard enough, though.

  “Well, you were thinking it hard enough, though,” she said, echoing verbally the words he had just been thinking.

  James didn’t say anything—just smiled.

  “I know, I know, I shouldn’t read people’s minds without their permission. Sorry, I’ll try not to do it again,” she said with mild sarcasm, batting her eyes, her bottom lip puffed out as if looking for forgiveness.

  James could see she was trying to make a joke out of something he felt was probably the truth. “Apology accepted,” he said, wondering what he could do to mess with her, and see if she really could read minds. “Give me a number between one and ten,” he asked, and began concentrating on the number one hundred.

  “One hundred, er ten,” she replied.

  “Close enough,” he said. He’d have to start doing mathematical equations in his head if he felt a personal thought about her come around. Cloud her with calculus—that was the solution to the predicament. It was the non-mathematical problem of his feelings about her that was the real poser.

  “Let’s start outside and look around the grounds first before it gets too hot,” she suggested, as she fanned herself with the flyer. It was already warm.

  She got back behind the wheel and drove down the paved loop byway, stopping at the numbered pullouts, following the documented trail suggested by the flyer. They got out and viewed the large monuments, walking side by side silently, taking in the words cast and etched into the memorials, then got back into the air-conditioned car. A few pullouts later, they took the small hike down the crushed granite trail to the tall white monolith marking the third line.

  It was there, halfway to the monument that looked like it belonged in Washington, D.C., that they stopped and stared at each other. James could tell by her startled look that she, too, could hear the spine-tingling whispers of the ghosts who seemed to be hovering nearby. The trees seemed to exude the essence of the pain and determination of those who had fallen so many years before.

  Leah squeezed his arm, letting him know wordlessly that she wanted to go back to the museum.

  “It’s too much for me,” she said when they got back to the car. “I’m glad they made the sacrifice—the Continental Patriots, that is—but I wish so many people hadn’t died, from both countries. This is awkward because you were on the other side, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rui
n the experience for you. I was touched by it, too, if that makes a difference. If you recall, my family fought over here, too. Remember the letter?”

  Leah snorted and looked at him sternly.

  Duh, of course she remembered it! He swallowed and started again. “It was a cold, calculated, and merciless war on the part of England, who wanted to keep control over her asset across the water, but,” he stressed, “America was also the new home to immigrants from there and other European countries, many of whom died trying to help establish it. My ancestor, Lord Julian Hart, a great British soldier with extensive military experience, made the change, and I know many others transferred allegiances, too. Right here, right now, I am British because of where my father was born, and you are American because of where your mother was born. Now, Lord Julian Hart went against ‘geographic genetics,’ if you will, and went with his heart. Who is to say that I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do the same?”

  Leah shook her head, confused. “I didn’t bring you here to change your nationality. I came here to see what my mother saw—and maybe experience what she did—just before she left. I know she was very patriotic, and after walking through here, I’m sure she was…well, distraught.” She pulled into the parking lot, turned off the engine, and looked over at James. “You see, besides being patriotic, she was also very emotional. Come on, let’s go inside.”

  “I met her, remember?” James quickly got out of the car and opened the door for Leah before she could do it herself. “You mother was also bright, compassionate, had a great sense of humor, and could handle a volatile situation with a finesse that would make a professional negotiator envious. Whoa!” James’s flat palm suddenly smacked his forehead in a classic ‘I coulda had a V-8’ gesture, and then he froze, his eyes wide-open in shock.

  “What happened? Are you okay?” Leah asked.

  James remained mum, staring into the trees, his eyes unfocused.

  “Come sit down inside where it’s cooler.” Leah put her hand on his elbow to guide him into the building. He shook his head and remained on the sidewalk outside the museum entrance, stunned. Back into nurse-mode, Leah took charge, hooked her arm in his, and led him to a bench in the shade. She checked his pulse, using his Rolex to time the rate. It was fast, but within limits. James was hyperventilating and glassy-eyed, but snapped out of it after a minute of her patting his hand and offering soothing assurances.

  He started coming out of his mini-trance as soon as she held his hand. When he felt her skin on his, he relaxed, but remembered to make sure to begin thinking about multiplication tables in order to keep an unreadable mind. This way, he could enjoy her touch and be calculating at the same time.

  “What just happened?” she asked, still clutching his hand, her eyebrows pinched together in concern.

  “Describe the doctor who took your mother away,” he said, frowning.

  “Well, he was real short, not dwarfish, but not petite either. He had thinning hair, was maybe fifty-ish, looked like…well, do you know who E.T. the Exterrestrial is, the alien from the movie? He kind of reminded me of him—almost, but not quite, toad-ish. And he had an accent. Not quite British, but definitely not Scottish or French or Italian. Do you know what I mean when I say continental?”

  James watched Leah intently as she explained. He let her finish her description, then asked, “Was he very confident? How should I say…”

  “Full of himself? Yes, that’s him, all right. Do you know him?” she asked, eyes wide in surprise.

  “Are we done here? I really would like to go somewhere private. We have a lot to talk about. Same motel, or should we find another?”

  Leah closed her eyes and blocked out everything except ‘same motel.’ If they got another place, they might wind up with two beds. Well, tonight she didn’t want to sleep by herself. She wanted to be held, even if by a gay man. No, tonight she wanted to be held, but especially by a gay man. She needed comfort and compassion, not groping or sex.

  “Same motel,” she said decisively. “I’m more than ready to go now.”

  The ride back to the motel was quiet, too quiet, and just a bit spooky. But they were still content in each other’s company. Leah reached over and patted his hand at the stop sign. “Check-out time is noon. We still have a few minutes before they go in and toss the beer. Are you thirsty?”

  “Are you sure you want to drink more beer after yesterday?” he asked, remembering her reaction to having a link to her mother’s past through a mini-movie on her smartphone.

  “Maybe I’ll use the beer to wash my hair and drink water. It’s healthier for me, for sure. I think I need to start taking better care of myself. I’ve been a little lax lately.”

  “Well, you’ve had a lot to contend with,” he said, and patted her leg absently, “I’ll help share the load in any way I can.”

  Leah looked down at his hand and smiled. He immediately started figuring the square root of all of the prime numbers starting with two. He grinned back at her, and said, “Well, the broad shoulders I inherited from my father have to be good for something, now don’t they?”

  She evaded the answer with the announcement, “We’re home! Why don’t you settle up with the front desk, and I’ll bring in the clothes and stuff.”

  James gave her the room key in answer and said, “I’ll be back before you can miss me,” blew her a kiss, and wondered why in the hell did he just say and do that?

  *14 The Other James

  August 6, 2013, 9:30 AM

  London

  James Bradford hung up the phone and studied the note and map in his hand again. None of it made sense. Maybe he should call Eight about it. No, he definitely should call Eight about it.

  Damn! He had already read the note to Clotilde’s sappy—and soon-to-be-ex—husband, James Melbourne. How in the hell was he supposed to know that the contents had to do with the treasure? It appeared to be just an ordinary business envelope, like dozens of others that passed through his hands every week. Well, it didn’t say gold or gems on it anywhere, but sure as the sun set in the west, this was a treasure map he was holding. Why else would there be such a cryptic note attached to it? Didn’t X always mark the spot? And this one had a double X on it, so it must be twice as valuable.

  He put the map on the table and called the cell phone number Eight had given him. “Shit, no answer,” he mumbled, “and the effin’ voice mailbox is full. Doesn’t that asshole know how to delete old messages?” He snorted with disgust. Probably not. Well, if he was in charge of this mission—which for the moment, it looked like he was—he’d change the coordinates of the map, at least temporarily for the scan, before emailing it to Melbourne.

  Bradford went into the little alcove that was the back office. This was still a club for the enjoyment of its members, and business was never supposed to take place within its walls, but the members had agreed that a multipurpose fax/scanner/copier machine installed for ‘recreational’ purposes—or at least to facilitate the same—would benefit its members. If one needed directions to, or information about, an event, a quick scan of a hand-drawn map with added details could be copied or sent electronically to a smartphone or computer. Members could quickly and easily share information on their favorite hunting lodges, taverns, or fishing spots.

  Or hookers, JB theorized. He had never overheard a comment like that, but these lords and upper class businessmen were males, after all. Names and numbers of women who were a good poke were sure to be shared amongst best mates. After all, that’s how he and Eight first got involved. Hmm, I wonder if that pink-haired tart is still around.

  He shook his head, trying to move the memory of that wild weekend to an empty spot in his brain where he could enjoy it in private at a later time. “Okay, we’ll think about her later,” he mumbled as he stuck his hand down the front of his trousers to rearrange his stinky bit that had swelled with excitement at the thought of Pinkie.

  The map was old parchment. He couldn’t just scratch the ink off with his bone-handle
d penknife or use that white paint-y stuff on the existing X’s to cover them up. He’d have to find a way to mask them temporarily, at least long enough for the scan.

  He opened up the cabinet of paper stock and looked through it for some of that fancy caramel-colored writing paper. Nope, there were different sizes and thicknesses, but all the paper was white. What he needed was…was a brainstorm.

  And then there it was. Poking out of the rubbish can next to him was a football schedule, ‘edged’ in parchment. Somebody had spilled coffee on their copy and thrown it away.

  JB took out a fresh piece of paper, crumpled it up, and dunked it into the half-empty cup of cold coffee on the counter. He squeezed the excess fluid back into the cup and grabbed a fistful of paper from the recycle bin. He placed the coffee-soaked paper between a short stack of misprints and overruns, then used the palm of his hand to express as much as he could into, or onto, the other sheets. It worked, sort of, but his colored copy was still too wet to work with.

  Aha! He gathered up his treasure map and note, packaging, and forgery project, and scurried across the hall into the men’s room. An iron and ironing board were always on hand for last minute wardrobe touch ups.

  He set the temperature to linen and impatiently pressed the sandwiched papers, forcing and cooking out most of the coffee from of the non-absorbent sheet. He was making a mess, but he didn’t care—let the butler take care of it. He flipped the stack of pages over and worked the sheets until his crafty little deception material was dry. Voila—artificial parchment! He clutched his precious fabrication and documents close to him, looked up and down the hall to make sure he was alone, and then slithered back to the multipurpose machine.

  He held the three sheets of coffee-stained paper next to the map until he found a portion of it that was the right hue. As it turned out, it was the edge of the blotting sheet that was perfect for his patch. He grabbed the shears out of the pencil cup and carefully cut out a rectangle large enough to cover the two original penned X’s on the map. He clipped a corner off a strip of cellophane tape and used it to hold the patch in place for the scan. Then it was time to use his true genius: deception.