Meerkats and Murder

by Leslie Langtry

  As I struggled to sit up, I opened my eyes and saw two of Riley Andrews, my former handler in the CIA and current PI in town, and three of Rex. And they were dancing. Well, they were moving.

  I shook my head, and my double and triple vision subsided. The headache, however, stayed.

  I reached up to rub my head. "Dark green sedan?"

  Rex crouched down to my level and tucked a stray curl behind my ear. His eyes were dark with worry, which was adorable. Although, considering I just got knocked out by a stranger in my house, maybe he had reason to worry.

  "I noticed you were gone and the front door was open," he said. "A dark green sedan peeled out of your driveway and drove off. I didn't catch the license number. Did you see him?"

  The men helped me to my feet, and I staggered over and collapsed onto the sofa. Riley brought me a glass of water.

  "I think it's the guy who broke in here earlier," I said between gulps. "Same height and build. Light brown hair with gray at the temples, bushy eyebrows, beady eyes." I leaned back against the couch.

  "Someone broke in?" Riley frowned. "When?"

  I turned my attention to my former handler. "Why are you here?"

  Riley grinned. "Police scanner. It's an excellent tool for a private eye. And when I heard your address, I thought I should make sure you're okay."

  Looking down, I spotted something sticking out from under the couch. I put my foot on the floor and casually shoved it farther with my bunny slipper.

  "What's this about a break-in?" he asked.

  "I'll tell you later." I moved to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of aspirin out of the cupboard. I took three.

  Rex's cell went off. "I've got to take this. Fill him in," he said as he walked outside.

  Riley looked at me expectantly. He was Rex's opposite in many ways. While he had the same lean, muscular build, Rex had dark hair and fair skin, and Riley had a permanent tan, wavy blond hair, and was about as untrustworthy as you could get. We'd had a very brief fling years ago. But Riley was a player, and even though we worked well together, since I'd moved back here, he'd made some pretty stupid decisions that got me in a lot of trouble.

  Still, he was here and maybe could help. I filled him in on everything, adding the part about Nye and Joe Hanson—the stuff I hadn't told Rex.

  "What do you think? Am I nuts, or did the CIA manipulate me into buying this house for some reason?"

  He didn't respond. The look on his face said it all.

  "Riley? You know something…" I warned, "If you don't tell me, I will gut you with this childproof aspirin cap."

  He got up and started pacing. Uh-oh.

  "It's not what you think." He started running his hands through his hair. "It's complicated."

  My eyes narrowed. "What," I said evenly, "are you talking about?"

  Riley had kept more secrets from me than a fourth grader with a pinky swear addiction. I'd given him a pass a few dozen times, but this was different. Some guy attacked me. In my home. A home that I thought I'd picked out myself.

  "I need to make a couple of calls." He fled outside as Rex came back in.

  My husband sat next to me and pulled me into his arms. This time, I had no problem with it, and I leaned against him, grateful that someone had my back.

  "There's no trace of him," his voice rumbled as I pressed my ear to his chest. "It's as if he's a ghost. My men and Carnack's men have been combing the town and the outer roads and found nothing. It's like he vanished into thin air."

  Technically speaking, you can't just vanish in a small town like this. People notice outsiders. The streets are deserted after nine at night, and everyone sees a stray car. Someone must've seen him.

  An idea formed in my throbbing skull. "What if he has a place here? A warehouse or something where he could stash the car?"

  Rex got up and made a call, moving to the back of the kitchen. I didn't have much time. Rex would make me go home with him. Moving to the living room, I reached under the couch for the thing I'd shoved under earlier and pulled out a package of wet wipes.

  What were these doing here? I didn't use them. Opening the tab, I held the package up to my nose. As I fell to the ground, I managed to drop the wipes behind the couch. Things got fuzzy from there.

  "Merry?" Rex leaned over my position on the floor. "Maybe I should take you to the hospital."

  I shook my head as I sat up. Man, that stuff was potent. I didn't black out, but I was woozy. A package of chloroform wet wipes. That was very clever. I wished I'd thought of that. It would've come in handy a few times in my line of work. Too bad this wasn't a marketable product to the public, but maybe hospitals could use them…

  "I'm fine. Really. I'll head across the street. You lock up when you're done."

  Maybe it was because he liked the idea of me calling it a night, or maybe he just didn't want to argue. As he went back into the kitchen, I scooped up the wipes and stuffed them into my pants, pulling my pajama top over them. Then, with all the dignity I could muster (which wasn't much), I went across the street.

  Once inside the kitchen, I examined the package. There were no markings on the white plastic. Just a tab where you open it. I had to admit, this was really clever. I mean, who wants to lug a glass bottle and rags everywhere they go? It was definitely useful. I was keeping it. At some point, I'd put it in my old house to hide it.

  I heard the front door open and Rex calling. "Merry?"

  Quickly I shoved the package under the sink, behind all those cleaning supplies I never used. Rex walked in just as I stood up.

  "I just wanted a glass of water." I smiled.

  Rex kissed my forehead. "Come on. I'll carry it and help you into bed."

  There was no way I could sleep. As I lay there making sure my breathing made me sound like I was (the trick is to go for consistency), I was still thinking about Riley's reaction.

  Had my house really been owned by Joe Hanson? I'd returned to my hometown so I could start anew. No one knew I was here…or so I thought. Now, three years later, this guy shows up out of the blue, and I find out some other CIA related whatever he was had lived here.

  It didn't feel like I was the target. From the look on his face and the fact that both times he'd run from me, I had the impression he thought someone else lived there. If he'd been after me, I don't think he would've fled. I think he would've tried to kill or kidnap me. This guy was after answers. Answers he didn't think I had.

  I needed to talk to Riley.

  * * *

  "Riley," I said to his voice mail for the tenth time the next day. "Call me back. I'm not kidding. Remember what I did to that thief in Qatar? Well, I'll do it to you if you don't call back!"

  The thief in Qatar had been hit by a truck. I'd been interviewing him. He wouldn't answer my questions, so he got hit by a truck. I was legendary at the CIA for that, and after word went around in Qatar, I found getting answers to my questions a lot easier.

  But that's not quite what happened. Unbeknownst to Riley and everyone else in the world, I wasn't the reason the guy ended up a hood ornament on a 1954 Mack truck. I was in an alley, holding Basim by the front of his shirt, and he, a witness in the murder of one of our operatives, smirked at me. He wasn't going to say anything. That was apparent. I was at a loss as to what to do next and was toying with taking him to our safe house, when Basim pushed off me with both hands, landed a few feet away in the street with a snarky grin, and the truck barreled right through him.

  I was standing there, holding pieces of his shirt and trying to figure out how to spin this, when a crowd showed up. I tossed the torn shirt, stepped out of the alley onto the street so the cameras could see me, brushed my hands together, smiled at the camera, and walked away.

  To the rest of the world, Basim was thrown out of the alley and into a truck. In fact, I'd had nothing to do with it. I always felt a little bad taking credit. But it helped because the next day, Fahim, Basim's brother, stopped by the consulate to confess to the murder. That almost n
ever happens.

  But Riley didn't know that.

  I'd been calling him every ten minutes for the last two hours. In spite of lying awake for most of the night, I'd finally passed out, waking up late afternoon (after dreaming that I was on QVC selling chloroform Wipes of Wrath). I'd started calling and texting my former handler once I'd brushed my teeth and took a shower.

  Patience is an excellent asset for a spy. But I wasn't a spy anymore, and when he didn't return my calls or texts, I went out looking for him. The first place I looked was the strip mall where his private investigating firm was located. To my surprise, I was greeted by a stunningly young and beautiful redhead in a V-neck sweater and pencil skirt, who informed me that she was the new administrative assistant and Riley wasn't in. She said her name was Claire Smith, but I'd never seen or heard of this woman before. Riley must have imported her from somewhere else. He must've given her one hell of a salary. I hoped she at least got dental.

  I pushed past her. There was no office—the whole thing was one large room. Still, I checked behind every desk and filing cabinet but found nothing. The bathroom was empty, and the back door was locked. It was possible he left the second he saw my minivan. To my complete surprise, Claire didn't try to stop me.

  "Was he just here?" I asked.

  "No, he wasn't." She gave me a brief smile.

  "Has he been here at all today?"

  She shook her head. "I can't answer that."

  "Tell him," I said as I walked out, "that I'm going to kill him after I torture him. Thanks!"

  The next stop was his house. Riley lived in a gorgeous craftsman cottage just a few blocks away. After ringing the doorbell fifty or sixty times, I let myself in. Riley didn't know that I had a key. I stole it off him a week ago and made a copy, just in case something like this happened.

  "Riley!" I shouted. "Stop hiding from me!"

  There was rustling coming from the study. He was really losing it. It's Spy 101 that you don't make noise when someone has let herself into your house to torture you. What was he thinking?

  I nosed open the door from the study and stopped at about two inches clearance. It was trashed. Riley was absurdly neat and organized. Which meant it wasn't Riley in the room. Damn. I didn't have my gun. Nor did I know where Riley kept his.

  In the hallway on my right was a pedestal with a long, thin obelisk statue on it. He'd gotten it in Egypt and told everyone it was priceless. It wasn't. I was there when he got it off a street vendor for the equivalent of two US dollars. How he got gouged like that, I'll never know.

  But it was heavy, and I was in need of a weapon. Swinging the door open, I jumped into the room, waving the obelisk about. The room was empty and the window open. Was it Bart? And if so, what was with this guy that he always went through windows? Doesn't anyone use doors anymore?

  Wait. What if Riley really was here? Did Bart (assuming it was the same guy who broke into my house) hurt him, knock him out, or worse? That would make me mad because I was supposed to be the "worse." And I knew Bart didn't have his chloroform wipes anymore. That sweet discovery was under my sink.

  I called through the house as I searched it. It didn't take long, since it was as small as mine and I knew the intruder had fled. Everything was in place everywhere else. But no Riley. Where was he?

  Back in the study, I started going through the papers that littered the desk, floor, and chairs. Was Bart looking for Nye here? I still had no idea who Nye was. Riley knew, I was sure of it.

  For a couple of hours, I went through every slip of paper, trying to find some information. There were old CIA and FBI files, which shouldn't have been here. Some businessy papers. A little black book full of names of women throughout Central Iowa—that was the one thing I wasn't surprised to find.

  I got to my feet and walked over to the window. And that's when I saw them. Several long blonde strands had gotten caught in a place where the wood split on the frame. It took only a moment to grab a plastic bag from the kitchen and pop the hairs inside.

  I waited thirty more minutes, hoping he'd be home soon. When he didn't show, I left. As I drove away, leaving the mess the other guy made behind me, I wondered who this intruder was. It certainly wasn't Bart. But it could be one person. It could be Lana.

  Svetlana Babikova was a double agent who worked for us. Or so I thought. Since she'd escaped from prison months ago, I'd been concerned that she was hanging around. She'd have to be in disguise because Lana was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman on the planet.

  Everywhere she went, she stood out. Her figure was skinny in the right places, voluptuous where it counted. Long, thick, glossy hair looked like something you'd find on an angel. Her eyes and lips were impossibly large. Men couldn't resist her. It's what made her so good at what she did.

  If she was in Who's There, she'd have to be in one hell of a disguise. I'd once taken her to the mall in Des Moines, where we were followed by almost a dozen men I had to shoo away constantly. They couldn't help it. Lana was the pied piper of men.

  So, where was the blonde bombshell?

  What if it wasn't her? I had no way of knowing if the hairs were human, animal, or synthetic. Someone else might've broken in. Another bombshell or a golden retriever, perhaps. Or this was part of a wig, hiding who was really here. I tried to picture Bart in a wig like that. It didn't make sense.

  This was getting old fast. I'd either have to report the break-in from the crime scene I'd just left and hope Rex could get lab results quickly, or I'd have to find another way. Hmmm…maybe I could say I went back to my house and found the hairs there? That might work.

  The problem with that was Lana was a big deal to the CIA. They would step in immediately, taking over the investigation, and I'd never know what happened. I'd have to hold on to these hairs for a while and wait for some sort of miraculous idea to descend from on high.

  Back at home, I stuck a frozen pizza in the oven and waited for Rex to come home from work. Yes, I know, pizza two nights in a row and all that. It never made sense to me that there was food you couldn't have two nights in a row. Who decided something like that? Better yet, who could enforce it?

  Leonard, the Scottish deerhound we'd adopted, went outside with no problem. Martini was asleep on the flat screen TV. Philby's kitten was a bit narcoleptic. She had the habit of falling asleep mid-walk, mid-run, and mid-eat. Lately, we'd been finding her on narrow ledges, facedown. It was as if she were planking on purpose.

  Her forehead, chest, and belly were flat on the top of the narrow ridge of the television. Arms and legs hung down on either side. I scooped her up and laid her on a chair before going off to find Philby.

  The cat, who showed up on my doorstep with a dead body a few years ago, just walked in and took over the place. Philby (named before I found out she was female, when I learned she was pregnant) was an overweight, black and white cat who resembled Hitler physically and in some cases mentally.

  Fräulein führer was on the dining room table, silently judging Leonard, who was chasing a bee. My cat didn't like the large dog. When he'd moved in last October, she'd made it her mission in life to torment the poor guy. Her latest trick consisted of waiting for him to walk by then jumping from some sort of height, hissing all the way down until she landed on his back. The poor dog would freak out and spin in circles. It was impressive how long she stayed on, especially since she didn't have claws. The longest I'd timed was five whole seconds.

  Rex would step in immediately to break it up when it happened, but I thought why not video it and see if I could post it on YouTube? Rex put a stop to that too. I didn't like how Philby rode the dog like a cowboy at a weird cat rodeo, but it was way better than last week's Torture of the Week where she did something unmentionable in his food dish. Every day.

  The dog recognized that Philby was the alpha and let her do whatever she wanted. Often that meant swatting him in the face for no apparent reason or jumping out at him while wearing the rubber werewolf Halloween mask. While Leon
ard was terrified of Philby, he was less so of Martini, who liked to sleep on him.

  I tried Riley again, leaving a message that included the suggestion of applying electricity to certain areas on his body, when Rex walked in.

  "Is that some kind of kinky spy thing you guys used to do?" He kissed me and sniffed the air. Wisely, he said nothing.

  "I'm mad at him," I said as I pulled the pizza from the oven. "How was work?"

  Rex changed into comfortable clothes before joining me at the table. He had a bottle of beer and took a long drink before answering me.

  "We haven't found anything about your intruder."

  "He isn't my intruder. And his name is Bart," I replied.

  Rex frowned. "You identified him?"

  I shook my head. "No. I just thought it would be easier if I named him."

  Leonard sat between us on the floor, his eyes alternately pleading for pizza crust and watching for his tormentor. Philby was somewhere else, plotting how to overthrow us all. Martini had made it out of the living room and was sleeping on the big dog's tail.

  "It's like he doesn't exist," Rex said. "No one matching your description is staying at the three hotels in town. We canvassed the business area downtown, but no one has seen him."

  A strange look came over his face. "I almost forgot." He went into the study, where he'd dumped his briefcase, returning with a necklace made from dead coral snakes. When I took it from him (something I had no choice but to do), it rattled.

  "You saw your sisters," I said as I held the thing away from me.

  "Randi has informed me," he said with sly smile, "that if you wear that when we are in the bedroom, we will get pregnant."

  I tossed the necklace to the floor, and Philby flew out of nowhere and pounced on it. After biting it once and staring at it menacingly, she managed to wiggle her head through it. Once it was around her neck, she trotted off.

  "I am not wearing dead snakes to bed," I insisted.

  Rex laughed. He had the best laugh. Warm and inviting. I wanted to snuggle up inside that laugh.