Sugared

by Gina LaManna

  A woman arrived to greet us at the press of the doorbell. “Welcome, Lacey and Alessandra. We’ve been expecting you. Can I get you ladies a cup of tea? I know the tunnel isn’t easy.” She wrinkled her nose at us in sympathy. “I’ve alerted Eric that you’ve arrived, and he’ll be down in a minute.”

  “This feels so normal,” I said after Alessandra agreed on tea. “After all of that, I expected...I don’t know, a castle or something. This looks like my dentist’s waiting room.”

  “I assure you, there is nothing normal about this,” Alessandra said. “All we need to know is what Beckett was working on before he died. Let’s make this quick.”

  The tinkling sound of china filtered through from the other room where I could only assume the receptionist was preparing tea. When she reappeared a minute later, she gave us a warm smile. “He’ll see you now.”

  It was only as I slipped past the woman that I realized how tall she was. Nearly six feet, if not over, and incredibly gorgeous. She had the build of a svelte athlete and the looks of a supermodel. With a charming personality to boot.

  “Even the receptionist is impressive here,” I murmured to Alessandra. “She looks like she could bench press me, then walk the Victoria’s Secret runway.”

  “This is The Violet Society, you know. They don’t hire just anyone.” Alessandra pulled out a chair and sat down at a long, mahogany table. A silver tea set was already waiting for us with all the fixings on a gleaming tray. “But we got through—and that means they’re willing to see us. Tea?”

  We’d barely poured tea when another figure appeared in the doorway. Tall, dark-skinned, and impressive looking. I could only assume this was the Eric mentioned by the receptionist. He gave us a brief smile, gestured for us to stay seated, and took a chair himself.

  “Eric,” he said, extending a hand for a quick shake. When he continued, his accent was noticeably British. “You must be Lacey, and of course I know Alessandra.”

  “Good to see you again,” Alessandra said. “Sorry to return so soon.”

  “What can I do for you? I assume you didn’t come for the tea.”

  “When I met with you the other day, it was because I suspected Beckett was in trouble.” Alessandra shifted in her seat and leaned forward. “You confirmed he was dead.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Lacey identified the body.”

  “Well, I was in shock, understandably,” Alessandra said. “Which is why I didn’t say anything. But now that I’ve had a few days to process, we’re back. It wasn’t a natural death, Eric.”

  “It’s not our duty to investigate.” He opened his hands, exposing his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Whatever I think, it is not my business.”

  “Obviously you agree,” she shot back. “You didn’t even bother to deny it.”

  “If it was murder, then Beckett must have involved himself in something dangerous.”

  “Do you know what it was?” Alessandra pressed.

  “Even if I did, I couldn’t share that information with you.”

  “Couldn’t?” she asked. “Or won’t?”

  “Both.” Eric stood up, his sheer height domineering. He towered over the ornate table, the paintings and decorations shrinking into the distance behind him. “It’s none of your business.”

  “We were engaged.” Alessandra stood, too, matching his stare. “We were going to be married.”

  “Did he ask you to marry him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then where’s your ring?”

  The two were sparring nose to nose, and I couldn’t look away. Except to glance at Alessandra’s hand. Sure enough, her ring finger was bare.

  “We hadn’t picked one out yet,” she said, her voice faltering ever so slightly. “He was called off on an assignment just after he proposed. The same assignment that I believe got him killed.”

  “The assignment of which you speak?” Eric leaned forward. “It didn’t exist.”

  “What?”

  “Beckett requested time off from The Violet Society beginning January 1st of this year. Over the last three months, we haven’t heard from him. So, whatever assignment he was referencing, it was a personal project.”

  Alessandra straightened. Then she sat down without another word.

  “Eric, er, sir,” I said. “Surely you have some idea where he might’ve been, or what he might’ve been up to?”

  “What makes you think that, Miss Luzzi?” Eric’s gaze landed on me, calculating. “If it was personal, it was personal. We don’t interfere in personal business.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Eric, I have a feeling The Violet Society isn’t one of those businesses that lets its employees lead separate work and family lives.”

  “And you know this how?” Eric seemed almost amused. “What experience do you have with the Society?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “Almost none. However, I work with my family, and my soon-to-be husband, so I know it’s damn near impossible to separate the two.”

  “Maybe for some.”

  “Does that mean you’re just going to let his murderer run free?”

  “We don’t operate on emotions, Miss Luzzi. We operate on facts and logic.”

  “Even when someone murders your friend? Colleague, whatever? He was still part of the Society.”

  “What you don’t understand, Miss Luzzi, is that every member of the Society knows what they’re signing up for when they join. There are risks, and we don’t hide that fact. We do our best to help one another, but at a certain point, we’re each responsible for our own fate.”

  I pulled out a slip of paper. The same slip I’d been carrying around all week in my pocket. “This was found on Beckett’s body,” I said, pushing it toward him. “Just a single slip of paper with my name on it. What would you do if you were me?”

  Eric appeared to stop listening as I slapped the paper down. Then he picked it up, held the slip against the light, and examined it for a long moment. “Very well,” he said, his accent morphing from a British one into something that sounded quite Scottish. “Please wait here for a moment.” Then he turned, leaving the room without a backward glance.

  “What was that about?” I asked. “Where did he go?”

  “He recognized it.” Alessandra stared through the doorway after him. “I don’t know what it means, but it was a code or a message or...something.”

  I poured more tea, debating what the note might’ve triggered. Sipped the tea, poured more again. Fumed for a bit longer.

  Finally, Eric returned with a small wrapped parcel in his hands. This time when he spoke, the accent was American. “This is for you, Miss Luzzi.”

  “Where are you from, anyway?” I asked. “Your accent changes every time you open your mouth.”

  “Good.” Eric pushed the parcel toward me. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  I glanced down at the brown, paper-wrapped something. I didn’t want to open it here, but I also couldn’t wait. Fidgeting, I glanced up at Eric. “Do you know what’s in here?”

  “I don’t make a habit of opening my colleagues’ private packages.”

  “If you knew who I was, why didn’t you give me the package the second we walked in here?”

  “We have a system in place,” Eric explained. “We must follow the protocol.”

  “A system for what?”

  “If one of our members is working on a dangerous mission, they are allowed to keep a name in their pocket. If it is on watermarked Violet Society parchment, it acts as a key.”

  “A key to what?”

  “We have lockers here.”

  “Like PO boxes?”

  Eric nodded. “Beckett had put this away for you some time ago. Then he carried your name in his pocket. He must’ve assumed, or at least hoped, the slip of paper would make its way to you upon his untimely death. Once you have the paper, you can return it to us to retrieve your package.”

  My face must’ve reflected disbelief. Eric pushed the paper towa
rd me, his thumb on top of a very faint watermark I hadn’t noticed before. It was a four-pronged skeleton key, the symbol of the Society.

  “Like a coat check,” I said. “I give you my ticket, you give me my things.”

  Eric didn’t seem amused by my analogy. “Anything else I can do for you today?”

  “Why are you letting this go?” I scooped the package underneath my arm. It was small, no bigger than an envelope, and thin. “You didn’t even deny Beckett was murdered. You seem to know everything else, so you must suspect The Zebra was involved.”

  “Ms. Luzzi, you seem to be mistaken about the nature of our organization. We do no harm and seek no harm—we are not in the business of hunting murderers.” Eric clasped his hands in front of his body. “Would anyone like more tea? Otherwise Lucinda will see you out.”

  My heart beat faster, and I couldn’t decide if I was upset, frustrated, or disappointed. “I just think Beckett deserved better.”

  “Open the parcel.”

  I hesitated, then set it back on the table. I peeled up the edge of the envelope and slid the package open. Even Eric leaned over the table, his curiosity obvious.

  “It’s a key card,” I said. “To the St. Paul Grand Hotel.”

  I slipped the key into my pocket and folded the envelope. I slid it under my arm, thanking Eric for his time. With a look at Alessandra, I nodded toward the door. “I think we know our next stop.”

  Alessandra, however, didn’t move. Her hand rested along the door frame. “Eric?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did he ever...” She stopped, swallowed. “Did Beckett ever mention me?”

  Eric folded his hands across his chest, gave the slightest shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Alessandra. I can’t give you what you’re looking for.”

  Chapter 21

  “Made it!”

  With Alessandra somewhat dazed after the visit to The Violet Society office, I had jumped behind the wheel. The sheer fact that I hadn’t crashed between The Violet Society headquarters and the parking lot of the St. Paul Grand Hotel was next to a miracle.

  I’d never driven Carlos’s cars before, so my nerves had been through the roof. I’d driven like a turtle in slow motion, worried the entire way about scratching the side, bumping the curb, or getting chocolate on the car seats.

  Somehow, none of that had happened.

  Alessandra didn’t share my joy in making it in one piece. She stared out the window, a forlorn look crossing her features.

  “Hey, don’t worry,” I said, nudging her with my elbow. “We have the room key, so this will be easy. Just pop in, take a look around, and leave. We’re not doing anything illegal—obviously Beckett wanted us here.”

  “What if I had it all wrong?” Alessandra asked, still staring out the window. “Why didn’t he mention me to his friends? Why would he put your name on the slip of paper instead of mine? Did he not trust me?”

  “No, Alessandra, not at all.”

  “Then what?”

  “Beckett loved you. A lot. Do you know how I know that?”

  She shook her head, still avoiding eye contact.

  “Because he didn’t put your name on that slip of paper.”

  She swiveled to face me. “That makes no sense.”

  “It does. He cared about you enough to keep you out of his business.”

  “No, I don’t buy it.”

  “Look at me and Anthony,” I volunteered. “Does Anthony send me out looking for trouble?” When Alessandra didn’t answer, I did for her. “No, he doesn’t. He asks me to quit working almost every day.”

  “Fine, but—”

  “When I went looking for trouble this week, who did he rope into things to help?” I asked. “You. I’m not saying he doesn’t care about you, but it’s different. He can be more objective when you’re involved because he recognizes you as the professional that you are, and respects your capabilities. He’ll never see that in me.”

  Alessandra frowned. “I volunteered to help, and I’m good at my job.”

  “Right. But if you were in trouble, he probably wouldn’t send me to rescue you. He’d send one of his men. Not because he doesn’t love me, or trust me, but because he doesn’t want me to get hurt. He’d go himself before sending me.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “But nothing. I’m sorry this happened to you, but don’t doubt Beckett now.”

  “Fine. Then how would you feel if Anthony left only a piece of paper with my name on it?”

  My stomach tightened at the thought, and my instincts flared up with a touch of anger at the mere image. “Look, I understand why you’re upset. I really do. But from the little I know of Beckett, he wouldn’t have lied—not about this. If he asked you to marry him, he meant it.”

  She looked down, a pool of tears in her eyes. “I just wish things were different.”

  “I wish that, too,” I said. “I hate that it happened. To him, to you, to everyone involved. But we can’t dwell on that now. Beckett clearly wanted us to work together, and he’s revealing things about his killer. We have to find out what.”

  Alessandra forced a smile, then wiped a tear from her cheek. “I just figured out why he put your name on the paper.”

  “Why?”

  She gave a tired shake of her head. “Because you care. You’ll do anything for your friends.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Lacey! You’re getting married in two days, and you’re here with me, sitting outside a hotel, trying to put your friend’s murderer behind bars.”

  “Someone has to do it.” I tried for a joke, and it earned me a small smile. “Plus, I’m bored. And I gave up ice cream for Lent. So, I’m itching for something to do, and I’m hungry. It’s a dangerous combination.”

  Alessandra laughed, and that in itself made me smile.

  “Yeah, whatever you want to tell yourself,” she said. “Anyway, you’re right about not dwelling on it now. Let’s find what he stashed in his room.”

  Alessandra moved to open the door, but I held back. “I should probably tell Anthony, huh?”

  We’d gotten our phones, and other personal possessions, returned after leaving Eric, and the only message I had waiting was one from Anthony that said to call him.

  “We have the room key,” Alessandra said. “We’re not even breaking and entering. Let’s pop in, grab the stuff, and head to the mall. You can call him from there.”

  “But—”

  “Come on.” Alessandra came around to my side and pulled me from the car. “It’ll be quick. And... surprise! I really did make us a spa appointment for three this afternoon, so let’s move.”

  I followed her inside. She did have a point; we had the key, which would make things easy. We’d basically been invited to enter Beckett’s home, whether it’d been a temporary one or no. It was just unfortunate he wouldn’t be there to greet us.

  The St. Paul Grand stood tall and majestic in downtown St. Paul, as its name suggested. It had been rumored to be a hotspot and hangout for gangsters back in the day, back when John Dillinger had swept through town. Somehow, the thought was fitting for our current business.

  Antique, lush decor gave the lobby an immediate sense of reverence as Alessandra and I moved through the lobby to the elevators, and I wondered what these walls would say if they could talk.

  When the elevator arrived, we stepped inside. I pressed the button P, but nothing happened. I pressed the number two, and that worked just fine. When we reached the second floor, I pressed P again. Still nothing.

  “Ah,” Alessandra said, swiping the key against the card reader. Then she pressed the button again, and the doors closed and the ding signaled us moving upward. “Apparently there’s extra security on the top floor.”

  The doors to the penthouse floor opened, displaying a beautiful entryway paneled with massive glass windows. A stunning view of the city spanned one windowed wall, sunlight filtering through and washing the landing with brightn
ess.

  Only one door stood at the opposite side of the landing. I chanced a glance at Alessandra, who also looked impressed.

  “Guess only one person lived on this floor,” I said, and she nodded her agreement.

  Alessandra held the keycard, stepping forward and swiping it across the panel on the door. It clicked, the light blinking green as Alessandra inhaled deeply, and then pushed open the door.

  “Beckett obviously kept his business life and his private life separate,” she said, glancing around the interior. “I didn’t know he had this place.”

  “You two traveled so often, maybe the opportunity for him to show it to you hadn’t come up.”

  “Sure.” Her hand landed on a gleaming black shelf lining the entryway. It was decorated with a few elegant plants, books, and high-end knickknacks.

  The truly magnificent piece of the apartment wasn’t the furniture, however, or the gorgeous open floor plan. Neither was it the modern interior design nor the kitchen fit for a chef.

  It was the magnificent far wall of the living room. With windows for three of the walls, the view overlooking the city, the rivers, the lakes below was second to none.

  As I moved through the apartment toward it, I surveyed every detail along the way. All the things I’d suspect from the New York penthouse of a successful corporate lawyer. There were few personal touches, if any, and if I hadn’t known this place belonged to Beckett, I couldn’t have guessed it.

  “Maybe it’s new.” I tried to ease the sting for Alessandra. “Beckett might’ve rented this place specifically for the project—a safehouse or something. He did leave a key with Eric for us, so there’s got to be something here he wanted to protect.”

  “Maybe.”

  She didn’t seem easily convinced, so I let her brood while I continued to explore. I pushed back picture frames, moved aside statues, swept under fake potted plants in search of something. A key, a message, a safe.

  Nothing. “Any thoughts?” I finally asked Alessandra. “The place looks clean as a whistle to me.”