“You only have to look at one to see that,” he said. “Where do you think the term ramrod stiff came from?”
I sighed and rolled my eyes as I tossed her into my purse. I grabbed my keys. “Okay, I’m off.” I hesitated, not really wanting to walk to my car by myself.
Van remained on the bed, watching me.
“Well?” I said.
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to walk me to my car?”
He raised a brow.
“Or insist on going with me?” I said in exasperation.
“I thought you’d never ask. Now that you’re showing some faith in my protection abilities, I insist.”
“Thank goodness,” I said.
Van grinned. “Do you have a picture of Ket on you?”
I nodded. “Are you kidding? My picture of Ket is like my credit cards—I don’t leave home without one.”
“Good. Take it with you. We have some Cindy Lous to talk to. In fact, I think we should see if Cayla Smith is around.”
“You’re good with names,” I said.
“Gotta be.” He grinned again. I had to stop making him grin.
Chapter 16
I changed out of my spattered camos and baggy, braless T-shirt into jeans and a bra and a women’s tee that fit. Then I called Mom and let her know to expect two for dinner.
We rapped on Cayla’s door on the way out. Her room was just across the hall, but she wasn’t home.
“Well,” I said stoically, “at least I don’t have to worry any more about Ket getting the wrong room and killing Cayla in my place. He’s smarter than I gave him credit for.”
“Comforting thought,” Van said. “I prefer my thugs dumb. Cayla’s probably downstairs in the exhibition hall, hawking her wares. I say we find her. I have a feeling she has a mouth on her. She’d make a great watchdog.”
I agreed. We hit the lobby and found a copy center in the hotel where we made several dozen color copies of Ket’s picture with instructions to contact hotel security if anyone saw him. We headed into the exhibition hall armed and determined.
An hour later, we’d distributed our flyers and stoked up the indignation and protective instincts of hundreds of women to the towering inferno level. Van had been ogled and propositioned. He was desperate enough to escape the smoldering estrogen center that had it been a real blaze situation, he would have jumped.
Ket had spent $54.95 on his chosen instrument of torment, a high-end piece of jewelry in the Cindy Lou line. But no one fessed up to selling it to him. We also came up empty-handed as far as making a Ket sighting, but I was weighed down with jewelry bags.
“Let me take those.” Van relieved me of my purchases. “I thought you hated the Cindy Lou ladies. Did you have to buy out their stock?”
“Asking them to keep an eye out for Ket was an ‘I’ll scratch yours, you scratch mine’ moment. I had to buy something to seal the deal. I wanted them to remember me as the nice one, the one who bought, because believe me, Ket can lay on the charm. I’m still half afraid he’ll charm them into silence. It’s just a good thing we talked to so many.”
Van sighed and shook his head. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about back-scratching. You should have let me do all the talking.”
I gave him an amused look. “Mathman, they nearly had you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A few more minutes in there and you would have been lucky to escape with your shirt. They treated you like a rock god. They were getting ready to mob.” I smiled at him. “Anyway, no hardship. I love jewelry. I think I may have an addiction.”
“No kidding.”
“Blame sports. Too many years of the no-jewelry-at-games policy. I grew up feeling jewelry deprived. I had to wait until I was in the seventh grade to get my ears pierced.”
Van’s look said he didn’t understand the travesty.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“I give. Why?”
“Gymnastics. I was too tall for gymnastics. It was the first time I had an open sports season since third grade. Finally, six weeks to get my ears pierced.”
Van still looked confused.
“You can’t take your earrings out for six weeks after you get your ears pierced or the holes close over.”
“Ahh,” he said, in that way men have of answering, but you can tell their minds are millions of miles away. “Where’s the car? I feel silly carrying these Cindy Lou bags.”
We made a brief, furtive stop back by our rooms to pick up an overnight bag.
“This is why I never unpack and settle in,” I told Van as I zipped up my bag and wheeled it out of the room. He had ostensibly thrown a spare pair of briefs and his toothbrush into a duffel bag. He carried that and my jewelry purchases to the car.
My car was parked in the lot smack-dab under a light and in direct line of sight of the hotel restaurant. If Ket was going to abduct me, he was going to have witnesses.
I popped the trunk and we stashed the bags. I beeped the locks and headed for the driver’s side.
Van stood rooted in place behind the car.
I looked back at him. “Hurry. Get in. We’re out in the open here.”
“I’ll drive,” he said.
“Chauvinist, are you?”
“I know some evasive driving techniques. I went to the Bondurant Driving School.” He shot me a challenging look.
“I have no idea who Bondurant is.”
“Figures. Bondurant is the king of driving schools. If we’re followed, our odds of escape are better if I’m driving. Besides, I know how to check for car bombs.”
I sighed and tossed him my keys. “Who’s paranoid now?”
“Hey, you’re the one who implied Ket has explosive skills. It’s as easy to rig a car as a package.” He pulled a wand thingy out of his pocket. He waved it at me. “I come prepared.”
“Thanks, Q. Got any other gizmos up your sleeve?”
“Maybe.”
“Who made you an explosives expert, Mr. Math Professor? Afraid of unhappy students?”
“I’ve taken a few classes.”
“They’re teaching Bomb Making 101 in our universities now? Just proves what they say about our tax dollars going to waste.” I gave him a skeptical look.
He grinned. “Bomb detection. Didn’t take them at the university, either. Let’s just say I’m into extreme adventures.”
I pierced him with a look and waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “Fine, keep the mystery in our relationship.”
I watched as Van did a visual and wanded the car, making wisecracks and admiring his butt as he bent over to inspect my car’s underside. “We need one of those mirrors on a stick like they use in spy movies. I could lend you my compact.”
“Very funny,” he said. “We’re clear. Hop in.”
My parents’ house was a thirty-minute drive from the airport strip. I punched their address into my GPS and let it do the directing. I was too distracted by Van and thoughts of being followed to pay attention. I wasn’t the best at giving directions under ideal circumstances.
“I hope you checked for bugs and tracking devices while you were checking out the car,” I said.
“I did my best.”
Both of us kept glancing in the rearview mirror, and I took a gander over my shoulder at regular intervals, but I didn’t see any tails. As it was, I wasn’t thrilled with heading to my parents’ place. I generally avoided putting them in danger. But at the moment, I was out of options.
“So you have your own place?” Van asked.
“Yep.”
“If Ket’s afraid of Grandpa Dutch, who I assume lives with your parents—”
“Since Grandma died. He lives in the guesthouse,” I said. “Don’t get any ideas about wealth and fancy places. The guesthouse is a converted root cellar and storage shed. Well, it’s actually better than that sounds. It suits Grandpa.”
“Why don’t you live with your parents full-time?”
“’Cause one, we’d drive each other crazy. Two, I
love them and don’t like putting them in harm’s way. And three, there’s that independence fetish of mine.” I gave Van a direct stare.
The GPS told him to turn left. He signaled and made the turn. “Just what’s so scary about Grandpa Dutch?”
“Worried?”
“I like to know what I’m facing.”
“Where to begin? Grandpa’s six six, three hundred. I can almost wear his ring as a bracelet. He’s what you’d call big built in a Paul Bunyan sort of way.”
“Sounds intimidating.”
“Yeah, and that’s not the half of it.” I smiled. “Dutch is legendary. He can find fish in any lake anywhere any time without sonar. He’s hunted and killed nearly every North American animal there is and, much to Mom’s chagrin, has the antlers and stuffed fish to prove it hanging on the walls of the guesthouse.”
I paused, smiling at Grandpa’s antics. “Bigfoot’s the only beast who’s gotten away. Not that he’d consider killing one. But he’d like a good snapshot of an actual creature. So far all he’s got is a picture of a footprint. Word of warning, don’t so much as insinuate Bigfoot doesn’t exist, not if you want to live.”
“So Dutch is an outdoor sportsman.”
“You got it. If Dutch tosses his hook out it comes back with a fish. If he aims his gun, he comes back with a buck. If he went after Ket…”
“I get the point.”
“Good. Further point of interest, he’s fluent in both Dutch and English. Don’t let him scare you with that ‘me hoon it, me boon it’ mangled English-sounding Dutch stuff he can lapse into when he wants to be intimidating. And”—I held up a finger—“Grandpa doesn’t swear. He grew up in a strict, religious Dutch community and has never completely shaken their strictures. Which means he’s confined to switching to a foreign language and yelling loudly to express his displeasure. Since Grandma died, he’s been more frustrated than usual. She was the only one of us who spoke Dutch. None of us understand his rantings beyond the passion of his tone.
“One last thing, you don’t want to swear in front of him, either. I’m still in trouble for using the word ‘crap’ in seventh grade.”
“Seems mild.”
“Not to Dutch.”
“Warning taken.”
“Good.”
When we arrived, I instructed Van to park in the garage. Since the trouble with Ket, my parents insisted I park inside for protection.
Mom and Dad lived in an old converted farmhouse that had seen too many rambling additions to be considered either beautiful or a study in efficient space planning. The once rural countryside around them had gone suburban, raising their property value and threatening their clear view of Mount Rainier with ten-to-an-acre homes.
I selected a pair of pink crystal and bead earrings with a matching choker as a spontaneous present for Mom and we headed toward the house.
Dutch saw us pull in. He, and the pleasant smell of homemade chicken pot pie, greeted us at the door as we came around the front walk.
“What goes on here?” Grandpa pulled me into a bear hug. Up close, he smelled reassuringly of fish and cigarette smoke. Not your best combination, but steady.
He let me go and looked at Van through his startlingly blue eyes with an expression that said this new boy I was bringing home better be better than the last one.
Guess I hadn’t made it clear to Mom that Van was just a fellow camper. Not that it was really possible to make something like that clear to Mom. She saw husband potential when I mentioned the paperboy.
“Hey, Gramps. This is Van. Van, Dutch.”
The two men shook hands and Grandpa stepped back to let us in. “Come in. Come in.”
I was only too happy to comply.
Grandpa’s brow was creased in consternation and study as he stared Van down. I recognized the expression. I’d say Dutch didn’t like the sex appeal that oozed from Van. Or maybe it was the way I had a hard time not looking at Van. I sensed a horn-locking coming on. Grandpa would try to save my virtue by scaring Van off. Just what I needed.
Grandpa had been trying to foist off studious, nervous, timid, nerdy types on me my whole dating life. Anyone I had zero chance of lusting after. Too bad he hadn’t been in California with me when I met Ket.
I took Grandpa’s arm and tried not to look at Van. “Where is everybody?”
“Your dad is away in Portland. He’ll be home at the end of the week. Your mother’s in the kitchen,” Dutch said. “So what’s all this about coming home for dinner in the middle of your spy vacation? Are you out on a covert mission? Are we your safe house now?”
So Mom hadn’t told Grandpa about Ket. Grandpa was still staring at Van, who looked at me and shrugged.
“Sort of. Ket’s out,” I blurted.
My mother came around the corner from the kitchen with a smile on her face. Mom was average height, slightly built, and thin for her age with blond hair highlighted to hide the encroaching gray. She was a micro version of Dutch. We looked absolutely nothing alike. I wasn’t surprised to see Van do a double take when he saw her.
Mom hugged me. “Glad you got here safely. I want the full scoop on Ket.”
“I’ll tell everything. Later.” I stepped back from her hug. “This is for you.” I handed her the gold Cindy Lou box. “And this is Van.”
I made the introductions. Mom had to juggle the box as she shook his hand. In contrast to Dutch’s disapproval, Mom’s eyes lit up when she saw Van.
“Dinner will be in half an hour. May I take your jacket, Van?”
The house was warm. Van was dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a lightweight jacket. In other words, overdressed for the heat. Yet he declined Mom’s offer. He was either catching something or overly fond of the jacket. I shot him a quizzical look and he shrugged.
Mom ushered us into the living room. “Sit, everyone. Can I get you something to drink, Van?”
Van wanted a beer. I wanted water. Once we were all beveraged, Mom opened her gift.
“Cindy Lou jewelry,” she said. “I just went to a party last month. Becky next door. She’s always having some kind of party. Twenty years I’ve lived here I’ve never given a single party where my guests have to buy something. But that Becky! Always having a sales party. Name me something I haven’t bought from that woman.”
“Well, take comfort, Mom,” I said. “I didn’t buy this one from Becky.”
Van leaned into me and whispered, “Why doesn’t she just decline the invitation?”
“You can’t hide from Becky.” Mom had good ears. “She’ll rout you out. It’s easier just to endure and buy.” Mom rolled her eyes and put the choker on. “Very nice, though I was expecting something more spylike.”
“Sorry to disappoint. There’s a Cindy Lou convention in the hotel. Picture hundreds of Beckys running around selling, selling, selling!”
Mom and I shuddered in unison.
“Next time I’ll bring you a magnifying glass and matching trench coat. Promise.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” Mom excused herself to put the finishing touches on dinner.
“I’ll just go help her,” I said to the boys.
“You leaving me to entertain your friend all by myself?” Grandpa asked, clearly uncertain how to go about it.
“I trust you not to scare him away. Show him your Bigfoot footprint picture, Grandpa,” I called to Dutch over my shoulder as I followed Mom to the kitchen. “Van is a skeptic.”
I winked at Van, whose eyes went wide before he mouthed an expletive back at me. “Live on the edge,” I mouthed back and turned away.
I was dying to get to the guest room and use the computer. Van might not be curious about the dongle and its connection to the other campers, but my curiosity was threatening to take me down. Mom would never let me help in the kitchen. But Van had no way of knowing that. I intended to wander off to do my dirty work.
As anticipated, once I was in the kitchen, Mom rejected my help. However, she’d interpreted my presence as code for “grill
me about Ket.”
“How? When?” she asked as she tore up a salad.
“Legal technicality. This morning.” I answered her questions to the best of my abilities. “Do you mind if I go freshen up before we eat?”
Mom arched a brow, bombarded me with a few more Ket questions and let me go. “I left you some goodies in your room. The local bath and body shop had their new line of fall scents out last week. I picked you up a few of those three-in-one body washes you love.”
She had indeed. Pumpkin Pie Pleasures and Cinnamon Bun Bliss. I gave them each a quick sniff. Nice. I had a momentary fantasy of a double shower with Van and me, Van covered in luscious Cinnamon Bun Bliss lather and some bump and grind going on. They say that cinnamon is good for the health. In my fantasy, it was definitely very good for me. I smiled to myself and then I was off to the guest room to log on to Mom’s computer.
Ten minutes later I’d Googled Cliff and found him and his movies on IMDb. I couldn’t find anything more damning on him than that he’d made more than a few bombs. Nothing I’d ever rent, for sure. I turned my attention to Peewee and his big shot, rumored-to-be-Mafia uncle. Jackpot!
Mom called us to dinner just as I finished reading a fascinating article on one of those crime file websites about Sil Canarino, with a brief mention of his lowlife nephew Peewee. Sil was a Mafia boss and infamous wiretapper to the stars with more dirt on the Hollywood rich and famous than an excavation site. He was currently in the can awaiting trial and refusing to talk about how to decrypt his impressive encrypted library of audio files that housed all that lovely, rich sandy loam. The key to the encryption was a dongle. Everybody wanted it—the tabloids, the FBI, the guys Sil had the dirt on. And guess what? The dongle was missing.
“Shit!” I said, hoping Grandpa didn’t hear. Shit had to be way worse than crap. And I was deep in it.
Chapter 17
The table was set for four with Mom’s best everyday dishes and a floral arrangement in fall colors. A large bowl of tossed salad sat off to one side surrounded by an assortment of salad dressings. I sat next to Van and across from Grandpa. My mind was bouncing around Godfather endings and Sopranos episodes. I’d gotten rid of that damn dongle, if it indeed was the dongle. Everybody knew I’d given it up. I was safe in my childhood home, the one I hoped didn’t turn into Massacre on 185th Street. I just needed to relax. Van had to be right. We were safe now.
Spy Games Page 14
