Forever in Your Service

by Sandra Antonelli

  “Yes, you understand. And you’re not going anywhere without me, are you?”

  She looked at him and ceased trying to grind a hole in her skull, head shaking, slowly. “I nearly left last night. I was going to smash Reed over the head with a fruit bowl, grab the dog, and go, but then you came back from the dead. Do you understand why I won’t leave?”

  “You are, at times, a maddeningly wilful woman, Mae.”

  “A yes would have been sufficient. If I were a man, you’d call me stubborn, determined, tenacious, strong-minded, but because I’m female I’m wilful.”

  “If I were trying to be sexist I would have said you’re a headstrong girl, Mae. This is not your profession. And I said please.”

  “You think saying ‘please’ and ‘I love you’ is enough?”

  “Will you ever cease to be angry with me?”

  “No. And I shall stay here until I complete what I was asked to do, just like you. My work is contingent upon wine and what I find out about these people. You’re going to help me and I’m going to help you find out who killed Grant. Maybe by then I’ll be done bei—” With a huff, she ground her forehead again. “These people. I have no idea what I am going to tell Bryce about Reed or you, particularly since the information he had on you two was false, which I suppose is standard misinformation spy shite.”

  Ice burst into Kitt’s bloodstream. Cold sweat prickled the back of his neck. “Bryce is your handler?”

  “Yes.”

  Kitt cocked his head, one eyebrow arched. “Just how is Bryce handling you?”

  She dropped her grinding hand and mirrored his expression. “And you believed I was petty?”

  “Yes. That was quite uncalled for. I apologise.”

  “I don’t want an apology.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You.”

  “You have me.”

  “But I didn’t. You died. What I feared came to fruition. You died and I was alone again.” She looked at him, eyes bright with ire and frustrated tears. “But Bryce, Bryce has been a very good friend.”

  “I do believe I’m going to kill your very good friend.”

  “Enough. He didn’t talk me into anything, if that’s what making you spout homicidal hyperbole. He was simply a prompt to remember that I could save myself, as I had when Caspar died. I couldn’t look at your clothes, your toiletries, your insanely enormous bed. I couldn’t have those reminders of you about me. I had to rid myself of them, yet clearing out your things, clearing away reminders of you wasn’t enough until I remembered I could bury myself in work, like you did for years to ignore your feelings for me. With work, I could ignore you the same way; only you were still everywhere. I could not escape you.” She let out a quivering breath and swallowed.

  “You’re going to be angry about this, angry with me, for years.”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know, but I can’t really blame you for this,” she sniffled, a tear dribbling. “I knew you’d be a heartache. I can’t blame you when I knew that. You lie for a living. It was my choice to not ignore what I felt for you, to act on it.” Jaw set, Mae inhaled through her teeth and exhaled raggedly. She turned in a circle and sank down onto the sofa, waking Felix. The skinny dog took that as his cue to move into her lap. “I loved you and then, Jaysus, Bryce told me you were dead. You were gone and I’d only just found you.”

  Kitt watched her become somehow smaller. “I’m here now,” he said.

  “But you weren’t. I believed you were dead.” Furious tears trickled out fast. “And don’t you bloody say anything about your bleedin’ postcards. You were dead, and work was my way to process what I had lost, so I wouldn’t fall into a pit of PTSD like my brother. The work Llewelyn asked me to do held a strange connection to you, to the life you led. I think that’s why I agreed to do the favour he asked. I wanted to know why, why you do what you do. The only way I can explain is that I was angry you died, and I wanted to understand you.”

  “You understand me.”

  “No. I don’t understand you, or myself.” It wasn’t the way she curled over the dog and stroked the animal that made her look so tiny, it was something different; it was a surrender, a collapse, an utter and unmistakable defeat. A guttural sob worked from her throat. “Oh Jaysus. Jaysus,” she muttered, and what remained of her tenacity crumbled.

  She was correct. They were all sixes and sevens with each other. The shock had worn off for them both. Kitt had known her decompensation would happen eventually, but he was completely unprepared, and anything he thought to do seemed anaemic. When she began to weep in a way he’d once seen her cry for her dead husband, Kitt had no clue, no useful thing to say, no idea how to comfort her, or if it was wise to try, but he had to try.

  Ready for her fists, for her anger, for her snotty nose to wet his neck, Kitt sat beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words feeble, his eyes burning. Had he really believed sending her postcards would be enough of a sign, enough proof of life? Yes. Yes, he had, and his action had been anaemic, he was anaemic and far feebler than the consolation he tried to give her, than the regret he tried to express. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say, pathetically. “I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

  She looked at him, her face awash with tears that blamed, screamed, hated, and loved him, muttering obscene words and phrases at him as she cried and cried and cried, her hand running along the dog’s soft fur over and over. Breath staccato, sniffling, she hiccupped and shuddered. “Who’s the crybaby now?”

  Kitt laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hush, now, Mrs Valentine,” he said tenderly.

  Mae sat up. She let the dog go, rose, and tugged off her apron, wiping her nose with it. “Let’s get on with it then. The others are occupied. You wanted an opportunity to see the barn. Now’s your chance.” She shrugged off his jacket and jerked on her steadfast mantle of professionalism.

  Chapter 11

  A blend of weedkiller, grease, motor oil, and milled wood scented the air. While Mae had turned off the music in the great room, Wayne Newton’s Danke Schoen filtered in through the garage barn’s hidden speakers. Immediately, Kitt found the touchpad and shut off the bloody music. “That’s better,” he said, poking up the brim of the cowboy hat, scanning the barn’s interior.

  Divided into two areas, one side was laid out like a garden supply shop, with bottles of weed killer, liquid fertiliser, insecticide in tidy rows on two shelves. Bags of potting mix and rock salt sat stacked on pallets near the front of a small tractor. He crossed to the other side, past various tractor attachments and implements, and went to Mae. She stood with Felix beside a car, its curves visible beneath a blue cloth.

  The shrouded front end of the vehicle sat close to metal ramps, the kind mechanics used. The ramps, set atop one another, almost touched stacked planks that had once been pallets and shipping crates. Three intact shipping crates used as storage containers, lay beneath the windows at the rear of the barn, one full of packing material, the second and third brimming with empty wine bottles. Large garage doors, the sort that rolled up, closed off the front of the barn. The entire space was warm, heated by the solar system on the roof.

  “What are you looking for?” Mae unhooked the dog’s lead.

  “I haven’t a clue. What have you been looking for?”

  “Evidence of bottle tampering. Boxes of paper labels. Stamps. Wax. Blending codes. Come on, let’s get to this. I don’t have a lot of time. I have to greet the Chungs when they arrive and sort out nibbles and dinner.”

  “All these people need is bread and wine.” Kitt began to lift bottles out of one of the crates, stacking them to the side.

  “I did that last week. There’s nothing at the bottom but a few dead bugs and there’s no false bottom either.”

  He replaced the bottles and crouched, inspecting the base where cobwebs and messy spiderwebs trapped bits of bark and the odd leaf, but nothing else. He rose, turned, and looked at the cloaked car, thumb running back and forth over the tips of
his two shortened fingers.

  What was so interesting about this car that three guests had asked to see it? The other restored sports cars in the garage held nothing secret. No one had any interest in seeing the Morgan Plus 4, MG-A, Austin Healy Sprite or Triumph Herald, but the Sunbeam...

  Mae watched Felix sniff about. “I’ve been here two months and I’ve searched the whole house. I’ve looked up in the loft and down in here too. I’ve found nothing. Taittinger likes it tidy in here the way he likes his home clean.”

  “What’s in the loft?” Kitt pointed above her head. A pulley suspending a hardtop for the car and an overhead crane with a remote hand-control hung down.

  “Old car parts, rims, seats, a broken engine,” she said. “I arrived the week Taittinger and Hector pulled out stuff from this car.”

  “Hector?”

  “Hector Rodriguez. He’s a jack-of-all-trades, a landscaper, a mechanic. He was the distinguished-looking Native American at the party, but he may have left before you arrived.”

  “Have you seen Taittinger and Hector work on the car?”

  “Yes.”

  Beyond the wheel marks on the concrete below where the tractor sat, the barn was neat, organised, shop-like. It reminded Kitt more of a display in a catalogue rather than a functioning workspace. Taittinger might have been fastidiously clean, but to Kitt the lack of dirt and typical garage detritus was an anomalous red flag, even more anomalous than the security system and bars on the windows. He pointed. “Any idea what came in those disassembled wooden crates?”

  “Some hand-painted tiles for the terrace Taittinger’s having Hector build in the spring. It could have been things purchased at auction, rugs, wine, pieces of art, antiques that are in the house, or hoses and brakes for this little sports car.”

  “Have items usually come in wood crates like these?”

  “Sometimes cardboard boxes. Depends on the size. A good number of things have been delivered since I arrived. The only peculiar thing that arrived was a freeze-dried dead rat from an irate wine merchant ex-girlfriend. That sort of thing ever happen to you?”

  “Discretion is the sign of a well-trained spy.”

  “‘A gentleman never discusses past relationships’ also would have been acceptable.” Mae chuckled softly.

  “We both know I’m not really a gentleman.” He tipped his chin toward the bottle-laden crates. “What size were most of the deliveries?”

  “Well, Goldilocks, some were big, some were medium, some were small.”

  “Did you unpack any of the larger crates?”

  “No. Taittinger likes to do that. If needs help, he calls Hector. I unpacked the star-shaped red rug on the wall in the great room, the ugly sundial in the upstairs hallway, and a full set of Penfolds Grange from 1951 to 2012, but I was there when Taittinger opened the rat.”

  “What happens to the wood from the crates?”

  “Some of it is used for fireplace kindling. The rest is left outside for landscaping. Hector feeds it into a wood chipper for mulch. I do believe last week’s large crates are now the chips lining the driveway.”

  “Very convenient.” Kitt pressed his lips together, hands on his hips. He looked about the space, eyes settling on the blue tarpaulin.

  “Oh, the car.” Mae crossed the space, grabbed the edge of the dark blue fabric and whipped it off. “This is what you should drive.”

  His brow arched. “Oh, yes. A hot pink 1962 Sunbeam Alpine. Indeed. You say my Bentley is far too girly a sports car and yet you suggest I drive Barbie’s convertible?”

  “James Bond drove one in Dr No.” She began to fold the cover.

  “I am not James Bond, and his car wasn’t pink.” Kitt tossed his cowboy hat on the car’s dash, took off his jacket, draped it over the driver’s seat, and crouched low, looking at the fall of the concrete beneath their feet, at the non-skid rubber mat that lay like a large run under the car. At first, the mat appeared to have an unusual shape, but it lay crooked on the concrete, despite the fact the area it covered looked square.

  “Maxwell Smart drove one in the American TV series Get Smart.”

  “Why all the sudden knowledge about the cars driven by fictional spies, Mae?” Kitt went around to the right side of the garish car and examined the mat under the right front tyre. On his knees, he ran his fingertips along the edge of the rubber mat.

  Mae moved and sat on the bonnet, car cover on her lap. She watched him poke and prod the dirty black rubber. “I’ve been conducting research into spies and the lives they lead. I thought it best to start at the lower end of the spectrum.”

  “I recognise a thinly-veiled insult when it’s aimed in my direction.”

  Mae grinned. “It’s not aimed at you as much as it is your car.”

  “Love me, love my Bentley GT.” It was slight, very slight, and if he hadn’t been flattened on his stomach he wouldn’t have noticed. One corner of the mat had a faint crease, as if it had been folded back. “What do we have here?”

  “A dirty rubber mat.”

  “No. The mat is clean. I think the real dirt’s underneath.” He tugged up the corner and looked beneath it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get in the car, Mae.”

  “Why don’t you get in it?”

  “It would be easier if you got in and I pushed.”

  “I know it runs. Or used to. I’ve seen Taittinger take it down the driveway drive and back. You’d look better in it than he does.”

  “Nice try, but I’m not getting in. I need to roll it off the mat.”

  “Why do you need to roll i—you think the car and mat are hiding something.”

  Kitt tipped his head.

  “Why don’t I get in and pop it in neutral.” Mae tossed the car cover on the passenger seat and climbed into the convertible. The seat hissed as she slid onto the stitched, slightly dusty leather. She put the window down, Felix hopped in, scurrying over her lap and settled on top of the cloth. Mae engaged the clutch and nudged the gear knob into neutral. “Go on,” she said and Kitt began to push.

  “Brake and put it in a gear.” Kitt moved around to where the right fender had been, bent, and lifted the mat, flopping it back on itself until it touched the front tyres. “Hm.” He looked left and right, straightened, and reached for the crane control overhead. Half a second later the barn was filled with a low hum and metallic clang. “Ah, indeed, you were very thorough.” With a grin, he rose and looked at Mae behind the wheel, brushing light dust from his dark blue shirt and charcoal trousers. “This is why you leave things to the professionals.”

  “If you found a hidey hole beneath this gorgeous little car, I shall be very annoyed.” She climbed out of the car, leaving the door open, and looked down at a metal platform lift that led to a dark space beneath the barn. “Well, shit.”

  “My love, I cannot tell you how very happy I am that you’re angry at something else other than me.” He peeked through metal mesh. “The light from here is reflecting on things below. Shall we take the lift and have a look?” He held out his hand.

  Mae gave a two-toned whistle, took Kitt’s hand, and stepped onto the non-skid platform. The dog appeared and plopped down beside their feet. Again, Kitt reached for the crane control suspended above, examined the four buttons, and pressed one. The platform began to sink, humming softly. When it stopped, Kitt figured they were three and a half metres below ground. The space beyond faded into darkness, but light from above glinted off glass not far from the lift. He felt around outside the lift, found a switch and toggled it. Lights flickered on. To the right and left, two metres high, sat row after row of racks filled with bottles of wine.

  Brick-walled, the wine cellar stretched the entire length of the barn. Aisles ran from end to end. The room was dry and cool, the temperature, according to the large digital thermometer hanging on the nearest row, 55°F. Kitt looked out over the wine cellar and grinned.

  “You are smiling like a little boy on Christmas.”

  “A
m I?”

  “Yes, and it makes me wonder. What did you do for Christmas?”

  Kitt lifted her hand and kissed the middle of her palm. “I spent the day at a casino, playing poker with a very unlucky one-eyed Frenchman who lost everything he had.”

  “You beat him?”

  “Yes, I thrashed him and took every penny he had.”

  “So much for Christmas cheer and charity.”

  “I was very charitable, Mae.”

  “You mean you didn’t touch his good eye?”

  “Did I already tell you this story?” He folded her hand to his chest and glanced at the wine again. “What did you do for Christmas?”

  “I roasted a turkey.”

  “Did you pretend it was me?”

  “Why would I do that when I knew you were already roasting in hell?”

  “You are not that far off the mark. Let’s have a look, shall we?” He tugged her off the freight lift. The skinny dog followed and then went to have a sniff around.

  Mae squeezed Kitt’s hand. It was warm, calloused, the fact parts of two fingers were missing not even noticeable. The only perceptible differences that came with this handholding were that Kitt was alive, truly alive, he’d ferreted out a secret wine cellar, and wasn’t smug about it. She’d anticipated smugness, or at least a comment about how she had no business being in the spy business, and she must have been looking at him with some kind of expectant expression.

  “This,” he said casting his eyes to all the wine, “is why you are here.”

  “And it proves nothing except Taittinger has two wine cellars. He is a wine collector and this is a wine collection.”

  “Perhaps this is where he keeps the fakes.”

  Mae looked at him, sucking in her cheeks, pursing her mouth for a moment. “Would you know how to spot a counterfeit wine? Would you even know what to look for?”

  “No. But you do.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I thought you were a trained sommelier, a knowledgeable professional, an expert specialising in all aspects of wines?”