She had a point.
Sharon turned red with rage. My guess was they were her role models.
I interceded. "Lauren! How about you?"
The tall redhead got to her feet and showed us a picture of an owl and a bear having a tea party with mice, bunnies, and a sloth making a V with his claws. "Interspecies peace," she said. "Can't we all just get along?"
Kelly let out a breath and clapped. It was a cool metaphor, taking some of the heat out of the room. I would've relaxed, except for the fact that we had Sharon and Betty left. Experience told me to hold on to my hat.
Sharon sighed heavily then got to her feet and held out her phone. "I just Snapchatted this whole lame presentation," she said. "It's a campaign to stop boredom."
Twelve sets of jaws dropped open. I glanced at the brick on the floor next to my feet but overruled the temptation.
"Sharon," Kelly said, "that is not very nice. Everyone worked hard on their projects. We are a supportive group."
Sharon plunked back down in her seat and went back to her phone.
"My project," Betty said evenly, "is also about stopping bullying."
That's when Betty unfurled her picture. In it, an exact depiction of Sharon was hanging from a noose. Pictures of the horses from the Kaitlyns' posters (including the dead ones) stood around them applauding, while Betty, dressed in executioner robes, held on to the rope.
Kelly immediately snatched the picture and rolled it up.
Sharon didn't look up, her thumbs working feverishly on her phone.
"But my campaign," Betty continued and looked pointedly at the mean girl, "starts with dealing with bullies at home."
Kelly waved her arms for everyone to sit down. Then she joined me.
"I've never seen a meeting go south so quickly," my co-leader hissed. "And we've been doing this for years!"
She didn't seem to like it when I asked Betty if I could have the picture professionally framed and matted.
Betty nodded solemnly and walked over to the class pencil sharpener. That was weird. We weren't using pencils. The girl returned with an extremely sharp pencil and started sneaking up behind Sharon again.
For the second time in one meeting, I disarmed one of my Girl Scouts to keep her from killing another one. I really should talk to the child. She needed to work on her technique. But that would be something to save for a later date.
This seemed like a good time for a distraction, and I called all the girls over to a table where I'd placed the diorama.
"That's us!" one of the Kaitlyns squealed.
Sure enough, there were four brown-haired mice dressed exactly the same. Randi really was good.
The rest of the girls found their vermin version of themselves and were thrilled. They didn't seem horrified that Kelly and I were rats. They were curious as to the demise of the rodents.
"Were they all suicides?" Lauren asked. "It would be okay if they were but very, very sad."
Betty shook her head. "They were all prisoners who murdered other mice, and they got the death penalty."
No one appeared to think this was a strange explanation, as they all nodded. It was better for them to think that, instead of what I suspected—that Randi and Ronni were euthanizing mice in their basement.
"That's so gross!" Sharon scowled before walking away and plunking down in a chair to text on her phone.
"Can you bring this again sometime?" Ava asked. "I'd like to study it."
Ten little faces looked at me hopefully, so I agreed. Maybe I could get Randi to represent Sharon with a bat or dung beetle.
"The meeting is over!" Kelly announced. "Everybody clean up your area, please!"
Sharon stood up and walked out of the room, shouting, "Later, losers," over her shoulder before disappearing into the hallway.
"What," I asked Kelly, "are we going to do about her? She's totally rude and disruptive!"
Kelly nodded at the girls as they pushed their chairs in and started to head toward the door. "I know. What is wrong with that child?"
I stared at her. "You're agreeing with me?"
She rolled her eyes. "Of course I am." Kelly chewed her lip—a tell I knew meant she hadn't told me everything. Damn. I didn't like that tell.
"Out with it," I said as Betty collected her brick and stood there.
"I should've told you earlier, but I wanted you to give Sharon a chance."
I threw my arms up into the air. "Of course I'd give her a chance. Well, probably not after this. Why would you think that?"
Kelly looked at Betty, who was listening intently. "It's her aunt."
"What about her aunt?" I was getting a little grumpy. It wasn't like Kelly to keep things from me.
"She's Juliette Dowd."
My arch nemesis and a Girl Scout Council employee. I was rendered speechless—a thing that's only happened three times in my life. Once, in fifth grade, when Kevin pointed at my paste pot and asked if I was going to eat that. The second time was at a wedding in Russia when I realized the groom was marrying a bottle of vodka. And the third time was when my troop dyed Philby pink at a lock-in sleepover.
This would be number four.
Betty sighed heavily as she snatched up her picture. "I guess I need to step up my game."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Juliette Dowd was my Bladdersly. I'd call her evil, but she really wasn't a threat to me since I've taken down much larger and smarter targets. The woman worked for the Girl Scout Council and made my life a living hell. Why? Because when she was a little girl, she thought she was legally betrothed to Rex.
My engagement and subsequent marriage put her over the edge. About a month ago at a Murder Mystery fundraiser, she'd been almost nice to me. And then she spent a couple of weeks in a looney bin. Kelly told me to stop calling it that, but when it came to this woman, I felt I could say whatever I wanted.
"She's out of the"—I changed my words out loud—"rest home?"
"What's a rest home?" Betty asked. "Is that like a restroom? Do you poop there?"
Kelly explained, but I ignored it because my cell buzzed, and grateful for the interruption, I checked the text message. It was from Riley. He had something and wanted me to stop by his office. Did I have time to swing by my house and pick up the stun gun?
"You were explaining," I said, "your unfortunate choice in troop membership?"
"I didn't know they were related until I accepted her application," Kelly protested. "I couldn't say no because the rules state that you have to take every girl who wants in…"
"This," I grumbled as I grabbed my Dora the Explorer backpack purse, "is not over."
As I drove angrily (something you shouldn't do ever) to the strip mall where Riley's private investigation office was, I tried to calm down.
Kelly had the best intentions. But Sharon was rotten to the core. I'd assumed that Juliette had softened in the last month or so, but for her to place a mole in my troop—that was going way too far. Maybe I should let Betty off the leash. Let her "take care of" the problem.
Argh! What was I saying? I'd had to stop her from killing Sharon twice in the same meeting. The girls obviously did know Sharon prior to the meeting. Inez's anti-bullying poster proved it. Surely my troop saw through her. They knew she was trouble and would be wary. I had nothing to worry about except for morale when the girl was around.
Or Kelly could talk to her mother. Explain that we don't have time for this kind of negativity. That had to be a loophole for getting Sharon evicted from the troop. Once I got home, I'd look in my leader materials and see what I could do. Sharon was causing problems among my happy crew. I didn't need that.
I burst through the door of Riley's agency and sat down in front of his desk. He gave me a wan smile.
"Joe Hanson. Nye. What do you know about them?"
He didn't even type it into his computer. He knew.
"I know about Joe Hanson," he said slowly.
"Riley…" I took a deep breath. "If you somehow manipulated me into
buying his house, I'll do terrible things to you with a fish fork."
Not that I owned a fish fork… But I did know what it was and how to use it to injure people.
He studied me for a moment, running his hands through his hair. This man never lied to me until I left the CIA. Then it has been one lie after another for the past few years. Why did I expect anything else?
"Okay," Riley said finally. "Hear me out first. Will you do that before you unleash rarely used flatware on me?"
Inside, I was about to lose it. But I was good at masking my intentions, so on the outside, I looked like a reasonable woman.
"Fine. Talk."
"Joe Hanson was originally Oleg Tartikov—a Russian double agent who gave us a lot of valuable information. He was on my radar when you and I worked together, but I never worked directly with him. Your mentor, Frank, handled him."
"Was it when we were stationed in Russia?" Why wouldn't I know about him when we were in Moscow? This didn't seem right.
He shook his head. "No. Quite a few years before that, actually. At any rate, Oleg defected, and we set him up in Who's There with a new name and identity."
I leveled my gaze. "Why my hometown? That doesn't make sense."
"It did to Frank. Apparently, when you worked together, you described this town as, and I quote, 'nowhereville.' He thought that was the perfect place to stash the ex-Russian spy."
"For the record," I snapped, "I never called it that. Frank did. And I didn't like it."
Frank had been from New York City and felt that anything west of NYC that wasn't Chicago or LA was the boondocks. It was the one thing that aggravated me about him. Unfortunately, he was killed a year or so ago, so I couldn't take said fish fork to see him once I was done here.
"Unbeknownst to us, Oleg, or Joe as we knew him, had brought something with him that was very important." He paused.
"And that was?"
"It's a file. He never told us about it, but we found out from another Russian agent. You remember Lana, right?"
My blood began to boil. Even worse than Juliette, Lana was my arch enemy and had recently escaped from prison. The Agency believed she was in Russia, but I'd seen glimpses or heard snippets about her in the past couple of months. I believed she was here. No one else did.
"Go on," I managed through a clenched jaw.
"Years ago, Lana told us she was convinced that Joe had smuggled copies of a doomsday plan out of Moscow. Operation Mokraya Sobaka."
"Operation Wet Dog? Are you serious?"
He ignored me. "Around the time that Lana told us this, Joe vanished. Disappeared into thin air. He must've found out somehow that we were coming to grill him."
"Do you have a photo?"
Riley said nothing.
I slammed my hand on his desk. "I need to see it. Now."
Riley sighed and opened a desk drawer. He tossed a very grainy photo across the desk. Joe did not look familiar to me. And he didn't look like Joel Janson, the dead janitor from the zoo, but the image was distorted and vague—grainy and hard to see anything more than face shape. I folded the picture up and put it in my pocket. Riley started to protest, but I got a bit stabby with a pen, so he stopped.
"It didn't occur to you to take a good photo of him when he defected? And why did you let him run off like that?"
Riley answered, "To be honest, we didn't really believe Lana's story. But to be safe, we paid off your real estate agent to show you your house and encourage you to buy it." He added, "If I'd known that we'd moved you across the street from your future husband, I might've changed my mind…"
I held up my hand so he'd stop talking. His rivalry with Rex was over as far as I was concerned. I needed to process what I was hearing. For years Riley knew about Hanson. He'd manipulated me into buying my first house—a house I loved because it was all mine. Except for the fact that it didn't feel that way now.
"You wanted me there in case the doomsday plans were there," I said. "That's why Lana was sniffing around three years ago. That's why she's back."
He played it safe by nodding.
"Who is Nye?" I asked. "And who is the dead guy who held me at gunpoint the other day?"
The color drained out of Riley's face. "What? I thought you just had an intruder."
I told him everything, even though he didn't deserve it. I told him about the gunman, Joel Janson, who broke into my house twice and was found dead outside Mr. Fancy Pants' enclosure at Obladi Zoo.
"Which brings back the question," I grumbled. "Who is Nye? Who is Joel Janson?"
Riley shook his head. "I have no idea. We always thought that someday someone would come to claim the plans. We searched the house thoroughly when Hanson went missing but found nothing. Our hope was that you'd stumble across it if, in fact, it existed."
"It's not your house. It's mine. And now that I know what you've done, if I find it, I might just destroy it."
Did I mean that? Probably. I didn't know what made me angrier—that buying my house wasn't really my choice or that Riley had lied to me. Again.
"What if Janson had pulled a gun on one of my girls when they were there just moments earlier?"
Riley rolled his eyes. "They'd probably disarm and hogtie him. I know your troop, Merry."
He was most likely right. But that didn't change anything.
"What about the break-in at your house?" I was tipping my hand here, but at this point, I didn't care.
"You were there?" Riley's jaw dropped.
"And I found three long blonde hairs in the window. They could've been planted, but it could also be Lana."
Riley shook his head. "I have no idea what they were looking for. Maybe they thought I had the plans."
"So," I said slowly, "Lana really could be here somewhere, looking for the plans. That means he had them. And it means he hid them in my house. She hired Janson to find them, but now he's dead. And you have no idea who Nye is. Am I right so far?" I got to my feet.
"Maybe." He shrugged. "I don't work for the CIA anymore, remember? I'm on your side now."
"I sincerely doubt that." I snatched up my purse and turned to walk away.
"Where are you going?" he shouted.
"To burn my house to the ground," I shouted back. And I was pretty sure I meant it.
CHAPTER NINE
Okay, I didn't mean it. Really, why would Riley even care if I burned my house down? He wasn't with the Agency anymore. But it was true that he was more interested in my safety than retrieving the files.
I sat in my car in my driveway for several minutes, staring at my house. Russia believed that dangerous information was hidden in my house. They sent someone after it, but now that he was dead, they'd probably send someone else. This wouldn't be over until I found the files or they did.
When you are a spy, you know that your life isn't really your own. Everything you do is for your country. And you're fine with that because that's what you signed up for, knowing that when you retired, your life would go back to being all yours.
Except it hadn't. The CIA managed to trick me into buying Joe Hanson's house, just in case there were missing files inside. Which meant they hoped I'd find them and turn them in. They'd put me and my cats and now my troop in danger. And that was something I couldn't abide by. The level of betrayal was impressive, I had to admit.
The small ranch house, white with black trim, was my pride and joy. The first thing I really bought on my own. And in spite of what the CIA had done, it was all mine. I'd paid in full for it. They owned nothing. Not one single nail.
Now that I knew, however, would they come after me too? Would they send people to break in and search the house, not caring if I was in the way or not? Probably. And why wouldn't they? National security was at stake.
And what about the other side? If it was Lana, would she send someone else? Would she come herself? And what about Nye? What about the missing Joe Hanson/Oleg Tartikov? Who had these answers?
I decided not to burn down the house after a
ll, even if it would technically solve all of my problems. No, I'd find the files, if they were still there, and get rid of them so no one had them. That would teach the CIA to manipulate me. Or…I could give them back, with the stipulation that each and every employee at the Agency buy at least ten boxes of Girl Scout cookies from my troop. Every year.
It was totally possible that Joe had taken them with him. I tapped out Riley's number on my cell. He answered in one ring.
"Yes?"
"When Hanson disappeared"—I pulled the photo from my pocket and looked at it—"did he move all his stuff out?"
"No," Riley answered. "The only things we couldn't find were one suitcase, some clothes, his phone, and his wallet. Everything else was there. But Wrath, we took everything to a warehouse and X-rayed every stick of furniture. We examined the house as best we could until you moved in and we had to stop. We didn't find anything."
Searching the warehouse was out. If the CIA is anything, it's thorough. "Who knows what he really looks like?"
It was like I could feel Riley shrug. "He was totally classified. Only Frank and Lana knew him."
Well that was convenient, now that Frank was dead.
I just hung up. I didn't want to talk to him anymore. My cell rang, but I ignored it. I wasn't at Riley's beck and call anymore. I'd talk to him when I wanted to. I looked at the house again. Somewhere inside could be a bombshell of a file. Where could it be? Obviously somewhere no one would even think to look—which was crazy impressive since spies were trained to look in those types of places.
I once found a cell phone in a bird feeder at a house in Tacoma that was loaded with compromising photos of the middle-aged and obese vice president. I can't give you details, but the words tutu and lipstick should give you an image you won't be able to unthink.
Too bad I destroyed it. The vice president was the one who later sold me out to get back at my dad. I've never forgiven the man for prematurely removing me from my chosen field. I'd softened over the years because now I had my troop and Rex, but forgiveness was not coming anytime soon.
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