“Dumped you, did she?” Kitt smiled softly.
Taittinger blinked, mouth drooping.
“Older women know what they want and Judith didn’t want you. Smart woman.” Kitt set his gaze on Mae, watching her rub the dog’s furry chin. He looked back at Taittinger. “How does Russell Grant fit?”
“What do you mean how does Russell Grant fit?” he said, twitching and rocking with imaginary bugs excavating an uncomfortable rectal fistula. “Jesus. What do you mean, how does he fit? What does he mean, Valentine?”
Mae tilted her head. “I believe he means Mr Grant knew about your antiquities preservation and that’s why he’s dead.”
Taittinger stiffened. “Grant’s in bed with the flu in the servant’s quarters.”
“No, he’s not.” Kitt’s cold smile didn’t wane. “There was no cougar or bear. You’ve been threatened, haven’t you? Yes, you have. After all, you did come to the barn after smoking a little cannabis, and you had a gun in your pocket—a toy gun, but a gun nonetheless. That dead rat Judith sent you. Mrs Valentine told me about it. You really think it was from Judith?” He moved and stood beside Taittinger, towering down from above. “You aggravated someone and you thought the deer was that someone sending you a message,” his head tilted to one side, “the sort that says time to stop. But Mrs Valentine found Grant last night in front of the studio, before he was replaced by the deer. I saw him too. He had a bullet in his face. So maybe the message is actually a warning. A rat, a deer, a threat, or a warning, you never know with terrorists. Either way, you’re quite fortunate I’m here.”
Mouth open, Taittinger froze, snot running over his moustache.
Mae burst out laughing. The two men turned to look at her. She shrugged. “A lavish party at a country estate, men in dinner suits, women in finery, fine wine, fine art, fine music, fine murder, and a little dog—it all feels so very Agatha Christie.”
“Indeed, it does, Mrs Valentine. We must be cautious. Other guests may begin to die.”
Wet, owlish eyes blinked slowly. “What do you want me to do, man?” Taittinger said, his voice tight and raspy. “What do you want?”
A sudden lightness loosened his shoulders. Kitt looked at Taittinger, the man shot a twitchy, pleading glare at Mae. Kitt turned his gaze on her too, and the momentary weight that had lifted tumbled back down, a bag of snakes and rocks and lead, hitting hard. He grunted and returned his attention to Taittinger. “What do I want?” Kitt crouched, set forearms on his thighs, and smiled broadly. “I want to flay you. However, there’s what I want, what I’m going to do, and what you’re going to do. Fortunately for you, you enjoy recreational drugs from time to time.”
Chapter 14
The light shifted, sunlight shrouded in a haze of falling snow. Kitt watched fat flakes meander down to meld with the pristine white on the other side of the glass. The mountains and canyons, the glimpses of blue sky, the pop of green brush and pinkish rock peeking from the snow were very beautiful. Some time ago, Mae had suggested he visit a spa in New Mexico, and he understood why she’d made the suggestion. The landscape was—if one set aside snow-hidden murder and the theft of cultural artefacts—bewitching, and if he remembered his geography, the spa wasn’t too far from here.
Pity it was too late to grab her and go there.
Music filtered into the room again. The Ink Spots harmonised about loving the Java Jive and Kitt looked at his watch. He’d been nothing but too late for the last five months. He had never been more aware of time or more irritated by waiting for something to begin—or end—as he was now.
He rubbed his thumb over the odd, smooth tips of pruned fingers.
Wineglass in hand, Reed crossed into the great room, and joined Kitt at the windows.
“How’d the working bee go?” Kitt said quietly.
“It turned into Nash discussing the removal of antlers with a couple of Latino gentlemen who are excited by the prospect of eating venison.” Apprehension bracketed Reed’s mouth. He looked out at the north-falling snow, the moving distant clouds, the afternoon sun shining on the valley and mountains to the east. He sighed. “Fuck. I cleaned up a crime scene without reporting a crime. I destroyed evidence of a murder. What’s the worst that’ll happen? I’ll lose my job or be jailed. Either way, my career is in the toilet.”
“Ah, but think of where your career will be if this next part goes off right, and if it does work, you can leave in the morning.”
Reed lifted a sceptical eyebrow and glanced at Taittinger guzzling a glass of wine as he arranged bottles of wine brought up from the cellar. “He’s already pissed.”
Kitt looked at Taittinger too. “Perhaps I don’t need you anymore.”
“Shithouse, henhouse, sweatshop, you passed along information, and I was doing my job. Maybe I still need you. Ever think of that?”
“Shut it, Simon.”
“And what about,” he sniffed, “Valentine?”
Kitt cut his eyes sideways. “She’s a fortress of unmovable loyalty and professionalism, and I love her.” He watched a dark bird circle high in the sky and flexed phantom stiffness from missing knuckles and fingertips. He turned, eyes still on the bird, smiling faintly. “I’ve cocked it up. I’m about to cock it up even more.”
Reed shook his head. “You think giving her that ring made it all real?”
“No, her wearing that ring made it real.” He watched Felix shadow Mae. She set out spittoons, bread and nibbles, pausing to run a hand down the dog’s slender neck, murmuring nonsense at him.
“You could say ‘thank you,’ you know.”
He faced Reed and all his freckles. The man was in his fifties and had boyish freckles. “You’re right.” Kitt nodded once. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, you little shit.”
Kitt laughed softly.
“Now what?”
“Once everyone goes down, collect the wines that were brought here for sale, your Jefferson included. Put them in the garage, in the boot of Taittinger’s Jeep. It will look like Mae’s stolen them. Then check out each and every person who was at the party, including the catering staff. Mae will have all the contact details.”
“You nearly died in a container full of counterfeit luxury goods, Grant, a man whose former girlfriend came from a family known for exporting counterfeit luxury goods, was the most promising lead, our host is an antiquities smuggler, and now ‘party guests’ is the best you’ve got. Can you remember anything else Molony mentioned, any associates or links to the Yeoh family, anyone with a grudge, anything at all besides chichiltic?”
“Grant’s the only common factor. You know what I know.”
Reed grabbed the end of Kitt’s bearded chin between two fingers and gave it an affectionate shake, cowboy hat jiggling. “Kitty, you know fuck-all and can’t even prove the fuck-all you know.”
Over the next twenty minutes, guests began to gather in the great room. Dean Martin sang Memories Are Made of This. Newlyweds Ernie and Anna Chung arrived. The thirty-something couple canoodled on the loveseat, swirling and sniffing wine, listening to Basil paint a picture of a deer torn apart by a bear.
Ruby shuddered. “I’ve been huntin’ with my daddy, but heck, that deer was grisly. I had nightmares in the middle of a morning nap.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Nash sipped a 2007 Gaja Barbaresco.
“Of course you have,” Reed muttered.
Basil chuckled. “To be honest, that was tidy compared to when wolves massacred our sheep.”
“Oh, domestic livestock has no chance with wolves.” Nash had another sip, made a face, and spat it back into his glass instead of the spittoon. “Who chose this sour raspberry soaked in dirty jocks?”
“I did.” Anna Chung raised her chin, dark hair gleaming. “And I taste perfumed berry, rose, tilled earth, baking spice, and a hint of new leather.”
Nash sniffed his spit-spoiled glass. “Sorry, yes, you’re right, Anna. It has hints of leather—arse-smeared leather.”
“You’re a dick, Bob,” Ernie took his wife’s hand, “but you’re right, that bottle’s corked. I haven’t liked the last two. Maybe that’s why the cowboy’s gone with bourbon.”
Steely-eyed, Mae poured amber liquid into Kitt’s tumbler. An exceptionally well-trained butler skilled at remaining unobtrusive and inexpressive, Kitt understood the intention of the tiny almost-sneer that tilted the left side of her mouth. Infinitesimal, the tilt conveyed how much she wanted to smash the bottle of bourbon over a skull, yet whose head did she want to bring the twenty-year-old bottle of Mitcher’s Single Barrel down upon, his, Nash’s or Taittinger’s?
The dog lay across the wine-collecting antiquities-smuggling cosmologist’s lap. Neck blotchy and red like his eyes, Taittinger massaged Felix’s ears, slowly, methodically, the movement hypnotic, soothing his fear, masking his level of inebriation.
The left edge of Mae’s mouth rose a fraction.
Kitt smiled to himself. Her near-smirk had nothing to do with him at all. Her derision was focused on Taittinger, not because of the artefacts in his wine cellar, but because of the dog. Kitt had a sip from the glass she’d filled. “Do whatever you need to keep up appearances,” he said, “but you are leaving in fifteen minutes. Pack light.”
“Yes, sir.” Mae nodded without protest, without a contrary squint of her eyes, the ideal professional butler, her attention on the job, on the needs of the other guests, on Nash who had moved to the fireplace, on Ruby perusing wines on the other side of the room.
The inflection of the sir gave him an indication of her irritation beyond Taittinger and the dog, and something about her lack of objection raised his hackles, a thin filament of alarm fluttered in his stomach. “What is it?”
She met his gaze, and there it was, the squint he’d expected. She glanced at the brim of his hat and then her eyes flashed angry. “I know what you’re planning to do.”
“Oh, goody. I’m glad you know. I haven’t quite figured it out yet.”
Mae’s stomach ached with the plan he said he hadn’t figured out. Eventually, that ache would move to her heart and she wanted to shout at him, except she’d been the eejit who’d thought his coming back to life would mean an end to heartache, and shouting wouldn’t save anyone. “Why can’t you leave too? I’ll send Bryce a message about what I found, without mentioning anything about you, and then you and I leave together.”
“You want me to quit?”
“Yes.”
“That would hardly be professional of me.” His gazed to the left and he squinted, as if trying to remember something, “Haven’t we heard someone say that before?” His eyes turned to her. “Goodness, the look on your face says, ‘Oh, do shut up, Kitt.’ I apologise for my cheek.”
“Thank you, your contrition makes it all better.” She cast a glance at Taittinger absently scratching Felix’s long neck. “I see your bloody point. I don’t like it. And I don’t like Taittinger’s sudden interest in the dog either. How did I not see what a phoney he was when his behaviour with the dog said it all?”
“Perhaps he’s finding comfort in the dog, like you did.”
“Finding comfort?” She sniffed. “No, you scared the be-jaysus out of him. He’s using Felix as a shield should real bullets start flying his way. The feckin’ phoney.”
“Isn’t that what Felix was for you?”
“A shield?”
“A comfort to you.”
“You could pick a subtler way to say I told you so.”
“I would never say, I told you so.”
One hazel eye squinted more than the other.
“Yes, I would say, I told you so.”
Ruby moved to sit beside Taittinger. Mae poured another splash of amber liquid over ice in the tumbler in Kitt’s hand, three fingers and two shorter stubs wrapped around cut crystal. “Do you trust Taittinger to do what you told him to?”
“He’s scared, in fear for his life and no, I don’t trust him, but there’s not much of a choice, for us. He’s already slipped something relaxing into the bottles the guests chose from the cellar. He’ll sit there, with the dog on his lap, and everyone will nod off, with Reed supervising.”
“Is the ‘something relaxing’ chloral hydrate?”
“Chloral hydrate. Just how much research did you do into tradecraft, Mae?”
“Tradecraft, is that what the intelligence world calls the knockout drugs?”
Kitt brought the tumbler to his lips, hiding the quirk of his lips.
“What happens if people decide to leave?”
“No one is going anywhere. These are responsible oenophiles and they drink responsibly. However, if anyone tries to leave, they’ll find they have car trouble.” Kitt glanced at Reed. “Cold weather can wreak havoc on a car’s battery, and so can Reed.”
“Yes, you have it all sorted out and a back-up plan in Reed.”
“That’s why he’s still here.” Kitt had a swallow of the Mitcher’s. “I am sorry about the dog, Mae,” he said and smiled at Ruby as she moved to perch on the arm of the sofa, beside Taittinger.
Mae muttered something uncharitable.
“Fifteen minutes. Pack. Leave your bag in the laundry. I’ll put it in the car. If Taittinger asks, you’re going out to buy more eggs for breakfast.”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“Yes, I have.” His mobile rang. Kitt knocked back the bourbon, stuffed the glass into her hand, and left her at the window, answering the call. “Happy New Year, Mum!” He crossed the room. “I can barely hear you... David, Mum says Happy New Year!” he said loudly. “Yes, reception is dreadful. Hang on, it’s better upstairs.”
Mae watched him head for the foyer, phone at his ear. She opened a bottle of already drug-spiked red, a vintage so old it looked as appetising as brown water. She poured the rusty vintage into Ruby’s waiting glass. “I’ll be needing to tend to a few errands before dinner, Dr Jools.”
“What’s that, Valentine?” Taittinger smiled daftly, eyes glassy, bloodstream saturated with weed and wine already.
“Dinner for this evening and lunch tomorrow are well in hand, but owing to a mishap in the kitchen last night, I’ll need to fetch a few things, eggs and such for breakfast.”
“Oh, yeah, li’l Felix was a bad boy last night.” He stroked the dog’s ears, running them through his fingers. “You were bad, bad boy, wern’cha, Felix? Ruined a hunnert-dollar cheese. What’s for dinner?”
“Moroccan chicken with honey, and Loubia stew for Mr Nash.” The hand she held behind her back became a fist, fingernails in need of a trim dug into her palm. “Would you like to try this bottle before I go?”
“Nah, I’m enjoying this Gippsland Bass Phillip Reserve Pinot Noir—nothing wussy about it, punchy and a li’l loud, like strawberry pie made’a meat. Goo’ call, Ian,” he huh-huh-huh laughed, words becoming sloppier.
Mae stepped back and patted the side of her thigh. “Come, Felix.”
The dog began to sit up, to move off Taittinger’s lap, but the man lay a hand on the dog’s back. “No, no, no, fine, he’s fine, Valentine. See? See?” He ran his hand down the animal’s spine. “See? He’s not humping. No more humping.” He laughed suddenly, drunkenly, with just a touch of on-the-verge-of unhinged.
Half a bottle. She held a half bottle of an $800 wine in her hand, a 1967 Grange Hermitage that connoisseurs said was sweet, complex, perfumed with apricot, violet and fig. Science had proven that human beings were fooled by labels and could not tell the difference between a cheap or expensive wine when tasting it. No one would be able to tell the difference if she’d hit Taittinger with a cheap or expensive bottle, and God help her she wanted to hit him with the bottle of Grange, she wanted to knock him out, snatch his dog, grab Kitt, and leave.
Her mouth went dry, eyes beginning to burn, throat tightening. “Very good, Dr Jools,” she said.
Twelve minutes later, she was in the beige Volvo, with a suitcase, no dog, and only herself to blame for how she’d spend the rest of her life
alone. It was a very strange thing to be resigned to knowing, and she held the steering wheel loosely, the control she had over her life just as slack.
Kitt didn’t care much for the way Mae disregarded the reddish icy patches on the bitumen or the distance between the car, the guardrail, and its proximity to the edge of the mesa. Mute and fuming, she had driven halfway to Los Alamos, up along the curving road that skirted a rock face and sheer drop, before he broke the silence. “I am sorry about the dog, Mae.”
“I don’t want to talk about the dog. I’ve accepted my future solitude.”
“Melodrama doesn’t suit you, Mrs Valentine.”
“I think I’m entitled.”
“I suppose you are.”
“Where am I going?”
“To a car that’s waiting for you to drive out of here.”
“Of course you’re not taking me,” she snorted.
“Directions are already set in the GPS. Just follow the little map.”
“I can’t get you to change your mind about my staying or you coming with me, can I? You’ve got it all planned and I’m no longer part of it.”
Kitt said nothing, unable to look at her, watching instead the impending doom of her driving them both over the edge of a cliff. Focusing on impending doom that was never going to eventuate made it very clear he couldn’t look at her because the real impending doom would come in a short while. If he looked at her now he’d have to be honest, the honesty would bring the doom. She would see right through him. It was easier to bear her irritation as she fell quiet again and kept on driving.
The silence between them stretched as the incline of the road flattened and they reached the top of the mesa. With the winter sun low above the Jemez Mountains, the route straightened onto the Pajarito Plateau, leading them past the Historic Los Alamos Project Main Gate and brick tower, toward the tiny town that ushered in the age of the nuclear bomb.
During World War II, the US had commandeered Los Alamos and land around it for the secret Manhattan Project that developed the atomic weapons dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. After the War, Los Alamos had continued on as a base for ongoing nuclear research, much of it secret, and the town and residential areas grew out atop surrounding mesas stretching out like crooked fingers. Kitt gazed out at the picturesque setting, the town still hiding secrets much the same way he did.
Forever in Your Service Page 20