Lady Bettencourt

by Sandra Cunha

  My “vintage” Motorola Razr flip phone finally conked out, but it’s been given a place of honour in my sewing workroom. It acts as a constant reminder to never let anyone else tell me how to run my business.

  The call was from Brian at the frame shop. I wonder if he’s reframed my painting already. I listen to his voice message.

  I listen to his voice message again.

  I have to make sure I heard him correctly. Because if I heard him correctly, I need to get to the frame shop as soon as possible.

  It’s probably nothing. I mean, why would a package be hiding behind the painting?

  Not any old painting, the painting: the one that belonged to my mom, depicting a mother and her two young daughters. The one that hung on our living room wall throughout my childhood.

  Unless . . . she never knew the package was there.

  Oh, my God. What if it’s drugs?

  It’s probably not drugs.

  It could be drugs.

  Or money.

  What if it was my mom’s secret hiding place, and the package is full of cold, hard cash?

  I could be rich.

  But what I want to know the most right now is, why did I take the subway? I should’ve taken an Uber.

  Our train has been at a standstill for ten minutes due to someone having a medical emergency. I hope the person is okay, but I feel like I may pass out from anticipation if we don’t get moving soon.

  I need to know what’s inside that package. It feels like my own life depends on it.

  “Where is it?” I ask as soon as I’m inside the frame shop.

  “Where’s what?” Brian, the owner, asks.

  “Sorry,” I say, catching my breath. “Let me start again. I’m Erin Bettencourt. Remember me? You left me a message about a package you found behind the painting I brought in.”

  He looks confused.

  How many packages do they find behind paintings?

  This can’t be an everyday occurrence.

  “Package . . . package. Oh, that package!” he laughs. “I’m only fooling with you. It’s right here.” He reaches under the counter and places the package on top.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s just a normal, padded envelope. I guess I thought it might look special somehow, and that by looking at it, I’d know what was inside.

  “Do you know what’s in there?” he asks, echoing my thoughts.

  “No idea.”

  “Well, if it’s anything good, we take a fifty-percent finders fee.”

  “Really?”

  “Fooled you, again!” he says, chuckling to himself. “But you’d be surprised how often this happens.”

  I’m about to ask him what sorts of things they’ve found, but he keeps talking.

  “We’re having some issues sourcing the frame you requested. It may take a bit longer than we quoted, but we should have the painting ready for you in a few weeks.”

  “That’s okay. No rush. Thank you for letting me know about this,” I say, taking the package into my hands for the first time.

  Again, I feel nothing when I touch it. I was hoping for an electric spark or something; it just feels like . . . an envelope. But I do know I shouldn’t open it in here. Not in front of “Funny Man” Brian.

  So I clutch the package to my chest and leave the frame shop.

  When I get home, Coco, my cavalier, is there waiting to greet me with her big eyes and wagging tail. I give her a few cuddles, and then place the package I’ve been holding tightly, on top of the dining room table.

  Maybe I won’t open it right away. Maybe I’ll make myself a cup of tea and catch-up on some business.

  But, instead, I pace around the condo while looking at the package, then away from it, then back at it. This goes on for some time. Coco follows my every movement.

  You’re being silly, Erin. Just open it. It’s only a package.

  A mysterious package. I’ve had a somewhat sordid history with those. But this one is most-likely from my mom. Which means, I should probably tell Betty, my sister, about this.

  Except, I have no idea what’s inside of it.

  What if it’s filled with that deadly white powder stuff . . . Amtrak? That doesn’t sound right. Anthrax! Yeah, that’s it! What if it’s filled with that? I can’t expose Betty to Anthrax, not while she’s pregnant. (Or ever, actually.)

  Betty’s pregnant!

  Very pregnant—with twins! I’m going to be an auntie, times two. And I’m pretty sure one of my chief duties as Auntie Erin is to not bring harm to my unborn nieces or nephews or some combination of which.

  Betty is keeping their sex a secret. I tried getting it out of her Ob-Gyn by pretending to be Betty on the phone, but she didn’t fall for it. How was I to know Betty was sitting in her office?

  So opening the package, without my sister present, wouldn’t be to quell my own curiosity. No, it would be to protect the next generation.

  Decision made, I stop pacing and resist the urge to rip the envelope open. Coco senses something is on the verge of happening and makes her way to my side.

  “Coco, if anything bad happens call 9-1-1.”

  She lets out a small bark.

  Having received her confirmation, I slowly tear the top of the envelope and take a peek inside.

  It’s full of paper. And not the dollar-bills kind.

  I reach in and pull out a small bundle of various stocks of paper, held together with an elastic. The elastic breaks once it’s been freed from the envelope. It must have been in there a while.

  As I try to keep my grasp of the now loose sheets of paper, my eye catches on the top sheet. That’s when I see something I haven’t seen in a very long time.

  My mom’s handwriting.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SANDRA CUNHA is the author of the Bettencourt Series. She is also left-handed (in case you were wondering). She lives in Toronto. Visit her website at sandracunha.com.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  DEAR READER,

  I hope you enjoyed reading Lady Bettencourt. Please consider leaving a review where you purchased the book and/or on Goodreads. As an indie author, reviews are really helpful to get other readers to discover my books.

  Thank you for your support!

  Sandra