Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman

by JB Lynn

  Thankfully, I was saved from making a decision by the ringing of my cellphone. “Sorry. It could be the hospital.” I squirmed out of his grasp, snatched up my purse, and fumbled for my phone. “Hello?”

  “You have got to come to the B&B right now!” Alice shrieked.

  “I’m kinda in the middle—”

  “Now, Maggie!” she screamed.

  Nearly-perfect Alice doesn’t yell at people.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Templeton’s going to die.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach. Gary the Gun. “Call the police.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “Stop him.”

  Alice of course thought I was referring to Templeton. “The police can’t beat gravity.”

  “What?” I was thoroughly confused.

  “Templeton’s hanging from the weather vane!”

  The bed and breakfast is three stories high and has a pitched roof, topped with an ancient, iron horse-and-buggy weather vane.

  Paul, who could hear every word Alice shouted, was already peeling out of the parking lot.

  “Tell him to hang on,” I said weakly.

  While I didn’t have any use for Templeton the Rat. I sure as hell didn’t want him to die.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I WON’T BORE YOU with the details of Templeton’s rescue, but I will say that Paul was pretty impressive when he swung into action. He got us to the B&B in record time, and he clambered up onto the roof without a moment’s hesitation.

  In the parking lot of Artie’s, I’d been sure I was never going to go out with Paul again. My life was unstable enough as it was without adding a boyfriend with a hair-trigger temper to the mix. By the time Paul had performed his heroic deed complete with rippling muscles and assurances to my aunts that they shouldn’t worry because he was a professional, Alice was whispering in my ear, “Where’d you find him?”

  We ended up staying there for dinner. And by the time we were done with the meal, Paul had charmed my aunts, deflecting any attention they might have directed at me in the process, providing a much needed respite from their constant questioning. He’d even won over Aunt Susan by insisting she give him a room-by-room tour of the place.

  During which I grilled Templeton on just how he’d managed to find Katie’s dinosaur. Aunt Loretta didn’t seem to realize it was an interrogation. She took it as an effort on my part to connect with the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with and beamed and tittered through the entire questioning.

  By the end of the evening, instead of thinking I’d be lucky if I never set eyes on Paul again, I was hoping that our next date would be sooner rather than later.

  Assuming, of course, that I didn’t end up dead or incarcerated before then.

  “Thank you,” I said, as he pulled into my parking lot to drop me off. I’d pretended to have a headache and had begged out of after dinner drinks. A request he’d accepted with an easy grace. “I know the evening didn’t turn out the way you’d planned.”

  “You can say that again. I’m finding that being with you, Margaret Lee, is never boring.” He slid the car into a parking space, threw it into park, and let the engine idle. “You don’t like that Templeton guy do you?”

  “I don’t believe anything that comes out of the man’s mouth.”

  “So you don’t think he was trying to get a bag off the weather vane?”

  “Hardly. Maybe he thinks that since it’s an antique it’s worth some money and he wanted to get a closer look at it.”

  “Could be. I’m sorry that I misunderstood about your relationship with Lamont earlier. He and Alice sure seem . . .”

  “Smitten? In love? Head over heels?”

  “All of that and more.”

  “How’s your shin?” When Lamont had joined us at the dinner table saying he’d just gotten in from shopping, I’d had to kick Paul to signal he shouldn’t mention the impending marriage proposal.

  “I’ll survive. Though you’re going to have to make it up to me.”

  “I’d like that. But not tonight,” I added in a rush before he got any ideas. I was all-too-aware that Patrick was waiting in my place. For all I knew he was watching us. “How about next time I make you dinner?” Yes, I know you’re probably thinking that all I was capable of making was Lean Cuisine meals, but I knew my way around a stove. Sort of.

  “I’d like that.”

  I reached for the door handle.

  “What? No goodnight kiss?”

  I hesitated. “Just a kiss.”

  “I promise.”

  True to his word, all Paul did was kiss me, making no move at all to even feel me up. I was sorta disappointed.

  Once we broke apart, I leapt from the car, tossed an “I’ll call you!” over my shoulder, and bolted for my apartment.

  Once my front door was unlocked, I turned and waved good-bye to Paul. He flashed his headlights at me and then drove away. I slipped inside.

  “I’m in the bedroom,” Patrick called.

  “You said you weren’t going to snoop. So much for that promise!” I hissed.

  Marching into the bedroom, I found Patrick sitting on the floor, his face inches from the television. I didn’t bother to turn on the light. The flickering glow from the set gave us enough light.

  “Find anything interesting?” I asked.

  “I told you I wouldn’t look around. I didn’t.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing in here?”

  “I thought you left the TV on for me.”

  “I left it on for him!” I pointed in the general vicinity of the lizard’s terrarium.

  “He didn’t snoop,” God informed me. “Go easy on the poor fellow.”

  Patrick slowly got to his feet. “Look, I’m sorry you had to cut your date short, but I’m not really in the mood to argue with you all night. So if you feel the need to unload on me, that’s fine, but can we put a time limit on it, so that we can get to the plan?”

  He delivered his request in such a reasonable tone, that I felt about as small as the lizard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . It’s just that . . .”

  “I didn’t look through your stuff, Mags.”

  “I believe you.” Normally I wouldn’t have, but since the lizard was backing him up, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  Patrick shook his head. “You always believe the worst of me. Half the time you think I’m out to kill you.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I tend to think the worst of everyone. You’re not special. Plus, you’ve had your chance to kill me a couple times now, so I’m starting to believe you won’t.”

  “So that’s why you’ve made sure to keep the bed between us this whole time? Because you’re so sure I don’t mean you any harm?”

  He had me there, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of confirming it. Instead I did my best to act casual as I sat down on the bed. “Why were you sitting on the floor?”

  “It seemed presumptuous to lie on your bed, like an invasion of your privacy or something.”

  I patted the mattress, inviting him to sit down. He didn’t budge. “You can use my bed anytime.”

  That hadn’t come out right.

  An awkward silence stretched between us. Finally I blurted out, “What are you doing here, Patrick?”

  He seemed to consider the question a long time, as though he was trying to puzzle out that very question for himself. “The plan . . . remember?”

  “I remember. I mean why are you helping me? Gary the Gun isn’t your problem, he’s mine.”

  “I feel responsible.”

  “Why? You did your job. You taught me how to kill Alfonso Cifelli. You gave me a plan. I was the one who screwed up.”

  “So I should just leave you to deal with it on your own?” A hint of anger tinged his words.

  It intrigued me, but didn’t cause me any concern, unlike when Paul had blown his top. “You have other responsibilities. Which reminds
me . . . are you ever at home? Either home.”

  “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “And your wife . . . wives . . . are okay with that?”

  “Thrilled,” he replied dryly. “As long as I make regular deposits into the bank accounts, everything is just fine.”

  I glanced over at him. He’d stuck his hands in his pockets and was watching me closely, waiting for something.

  “I’m not one of your responsibilities, Patrick.” Turning my back to him, I pretended to examine God’s enclosure.

  “We need his help,” God said. “Talking him out of giving it to us isn’t the smartest idea.”

  Patrick was on the move. He sat down on the bed beside me, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. I didn’t take my eyes off God.

  “You don’t have to do this. I got myself into this mess. I can get myself out of it.” I’d done it my whole life; I didn’t need a hero cop to come in and save the day.

  He leaned his arm against mine, forging a physical connection while I was trying to tear apart our emotional bond. I wanted to lean away, but there was something so comforting about his touch. He wasn’t asking anything of me, just giving.

  “You don’t have to do everything alone, but for some reason you seem to think you do. Why is that, Mags?”

  I didn’t have to answer him because Fate decided to intervene and do it for me.

  My phone rang.

  Not my cell phone. My house phone. The one I keep under the bed.

  I must have tensed, because pulling away Patrick said, “If you need to get that, I can go wait in the other room.”

  As he moved to stand up, I grabbed his arm, anchoring him to the bed beside me. “I don’t answer that phone.”

  “Ever?”

  It rang again.

  “Ever.”

  “Why not?”

  It rang a third time.

  Only certain people have my home number. People I don’t want to talk to. People like bill collectors, the HR department of Insuring the Future, the administrators of the facility where my mother resides, and . . .

  My answering machine picked up. I held onto Patrick’s arm like it was a lifeline. My own recorded voice, proper, to the point of stilted, started speaking from beneath the bed. “This is Margaret Lee. I am not available to take your call. Please leave a message.”

  I held my breath as the machine beeped.

  “Maggie May, it’s Dad. Are you there?”

  I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. My father never called to just chat.

  Patrick plucked my fingers from where I was attempting a death grip on his forearm.

  “I’ve only got a minute. I’m using the cellphone of one of the guards. I just . . . I felt bad about how you left.”

  I shook my head. Typical. He was totally ignoring his part in our conversation. The part where he’d selfishly refused to help his own granddaughter.

  “I think you misunderstood. I want to help Katie. I really do. I need you to believe that, Maggie May.”

  His arm free, Patrick wrapped it around my shoulders. I hadn’t realized I was trembling until then.

  “And I’m sorry I said what I did about you making your request being a strange coincidence. I know you couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  God laughed at this.

  “I’ve gotta get off, but I want you to know, Maggie May . . . I need you to know, I love Katie . . . and–”

  The call ended suddenly. I didn’t know whether he’d hung up or if we’d been disconnected. Not that it mattered.

  “So . . .” Patrick said slowly.

  I closed my eyes. I really didn’t want to get into a heartfelt conversation about my incarcerated parental unit.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but . . . you keep your phone under the bed?”

  His question was so unexpected, I burst out laughing.

  He followed suit.

  We sat there on my bed laughing our asses off. Of all the things he could have asked after hearing that message, I was so relieved that he asked about the phone that, at least for a few minutes, I forgot Doomsday was coming.

  Chapter Forty

  “HE SAID TO make sure to eat a decent breakfast,” God reminded me. We were both sitting at my kitchen table. I was nursing the last of my coffee. He was pacing the length of his terrarium as though he’d been the one to consume a full pot of caffeine.

  “Coffee . . . the breakfast of champion killers.” I toasted him with my mug.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”

  I thought about it for a second. “Nope.” That job had fallen to Aunt Susan. “But she did tell me furlies live behind the couch.”

  “What the hell is a furlie?”

  I shrugged. She’d imparted that particular bit motherly advice during one of her delusional stages. “I dunno. The way she talked about them I suspected they were some sort of rabid dust bunny.”

  “That reminds me,” the little guy said a little too casually. “I wanted to ask you what your father did for Alice.”

  I jumped up under the guise of putting my mug in the sink, buying myself a moment to compose my answer. “He almost killed her father.”

  “And that was a good thing?”

  I shrugged. “It was the right thing. Not the legal thing, but the right thing. My dad overheard Alice telling me that her father was . . . touching her, so he went over and beat the crap out of him. Her father left town right after that. He might be my dad, but Archie Lee is her hero.”

  “Sounds like you’re a lot alike,” God mused.

  “Keep saying stuff like that, and I will let you starve,” I warned.

  “Speaking of food, you do know that that Patrick fellow is the professional. If he said to eat breakfast, maybe you should.”

  “I ate dinner. A real dinner. Meat. Vegetable. Starch. Real food from a stove instead of a microwave.”

  God didn’t look convinced.

  He did look tired, kind of pale, or at least less brown than usual. I was pretty sure he’d gotten even less sleep than me.

  “I still have time to take you to the hospital, if you’ve changed your mind about coming along.”

  He flicked his tail, signaling his irritation. “I did not change my mind.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s just that I’m not so sure about this plan.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t either, but Patrick had insisted it was our best chance. “Patrick said—”

  “I know what Patrick said. I don’t need you quoting him.”

  “You’re the one who started in on me about Patrick saying I should eat breakfast.”

  “I notice you’re picking and choosing which of his advice to follow.”

  “You do remember that he said we’re going to have to be quiet, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “That means you, too. Even though no one can understand you, they can still hear you chirping.”

  “I don’t chirp. Birds chirp.”

  “Squeaking then.”

  “I certainly don’t squeak. Mice squeak.”

  I drained the last of my coffee. It was way too early to have one of these conversations with the little guy. “What do you do?”

  “I vocalize.”

  “Fine. No vocalizing!”

  “I wasn’t aware you’re fluent in Sign Language.” He said snootily.

  “I wasn’t aware you could keep that mouth of yours shut!”

  Thankfully it was a Saturday, so I didn’t have to miss work. Plus, I wasn’t locked into a schedule. Patrick had said this would actually work in my favor in terms of creating an alibi.

  Leaving God in the kitchen, I showered (because it’s important to be fresh as a daisy when you’re attending a murder) and went to pick out my killer’s outfit. As Patrick had instructed, I selected jeans, a plain black T-shirt, a zip-up sweatshirt (yeah, I know, some marketing genius came up with the brilliant idea to call them “hoodies,�
� but c’mon, we all know they’re just sweatshirts.) and a pair of sneakers.

  “Are we leaving soon?” the lizard called.

  “I just have to get dressed.”

  This ended up being more complicated than I’d anticipated. Because I didn’t have any underwear. At least not any clean underwear. (Aunt Susan had also been big on the “always wear clean underwear” drill.) I dimly remembered making a mental note to buy clean underwear; obviously I had forgotten.

  “Crap.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It sounds like it matters.”

  “I forgot to buy underwear.”

  The lizard was uncharacteristically silent. I didn’t know whether he was too shocked to speak or was just laughing at me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I assured him.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I think you should—”

  “I don’t care what you think I should do! I am a grown woman. I’m a capable adult. I think I can figure out how to solve my own fucking underwear dilemma!” I shouted.

  “Patrick said not to attract attention. Neighbors notice when you shout.”

  “Will they notice when I strangle you?” I muttered.

  I solved the underwear crisis . . . and no, I’m not telling you how, got dressed, and walked out to the kitchen.

  My personal cell phone (as opposed to the burn phones Patrick gave me) buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Chiquita.”

  “Hey,” I tried to remember whether my work friend had ever called me on a weekend before. “Everything okay?”

  “I had a terrible night’s sleep.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you—”

  “Cut the Insuring speech crap. I had a terrible night’s sleep because I kept dreaming ‘Doomsday is coming’ and then a loud explosion.”

  The explosion she heard could very well be a gunshot. Of course I couldn’t tell her that, so I asked, “Just one?”

  “One explosion isn’t enough?”

  If she only heard one, that meant that only one shot would be fired. Mine. It had to be a good sign that Patrick’s plan was going to work.